Joint Custody
by Remington Rand
Summary: ."His thumb rubbed the underside of Malfoy's wrist. It was such a small thing and yet the action conveyed so much." D/H Slash, Post-war, not based off of Deathly Hallows. Sequel to this is now up!
1. Chapter 1

**::1::**

The first thing Draco Malfoy did after leaving Hogwarts and his spoilt life behind was adopt a dog.

Well, to be honest, that wasn't quite the truth. He got a flat first—overlooking a rather shoddy part of London—with thin walls and spidery cracks that acted much more sinister at night, darkening as the bright ivory moon peeked through grimy windows. The floors were cheap tile, checkered with grimy tan and dull brown. The tap in the kitchen almost never worked; the bathroom was small, its contents crowding the room. The bathtub was practically an antique, with its rusted silver and battered porcelain; the mirrors were speckled with age, marring Draco's reflection anytime he looked.

His bedroom was most likely the worst. He had patchy sheets and comforters, a lumpy mattress and thin pillows. The room itself was mostly bare, with a rickety dresser holding clothes far too expensive. There was a side table too, next to his bed, with a lamp that sometimes worked. He kept his wand next to him, on that table.

The wand had been returned to him quietly, with no note. It had simply been there one day, at his doorstep. Draco had never parted with it since.

Truthfully, he had been quite surprised to see it still intact, and much more surprised at its return. He had chosen not to question a good thing, however—seeing as how good things were so very rare in his life at the moment.

The reason Draco planned on getting a dog was attributed to his neighbors—all young muggles, and engaging in activities the blonde wizard had been surprised to witness. To date, he had heard and seen screaming matches with the arthritic, half-blind landlord; physical fistfights with a large man who came round once a week, asking for pay—the muggles always asked for an extension, and their red-rimmed, bruised eyes shook as the man counted the meager amount of bills he received.

Draco had once been mistaken as one of the muggles, and the man had shoved him against the wall, his beefy arm around his pale throat, tightening quickly. He had been released, of course, with no apology—the man stared at him with his beady eyes, conveying a simple threat. The bruise around Draco's throat had taken days to heal.

If it had been only the muggles that were bothering him, Draco would have adjusted to it and at least been able to function. But the Wizarding world was harassing him as well—nameless, faceless threats waited for him at every turn.

And then he started being stalked—everywhere he went, the same eyes were following him.

He thought it was a male—the stature was bulky, not at all feminine. But he supposed he couldn't be sure, with Polyjuice being an option. The stalker liked to stare at him through his window, a twisted smirk on his face beneath the shadows of his robe.

In the beginning, the figure had kept his distance. The dark stare caused the light wisps of hair on the back of Draco's neck to prickle; the eyes followed his form, prodding at his skin, making the tension in his mind thicken.

It had clearly changed. Draco had arrived one evening after a particularly grueling and shameful shift at the petrol shop across the street from his flat—a rather obese drunkard, after paying for his grease-laden crisps, decided to make some disparaging remarks about his looks ("How much do you spend in the mirror, keeping your face pretty like that?") and Draco, under the watchful eye of his supervisor, had to paste on a smile and tell the vermin to have a good day.

If only his father could see him now—dethroned and living like a _Weasley. _No, _worse _than a Weasley. He hadn't known such a thing was possible until he'd gotten himself into this mess.

Anyhow, he'd arrived to his flat and saw a letter waiting for him. It essentially outlined a few vague threats regarding his manhood and quite a few ferocious jabs at his pureblood background; it ended with a promise to return at a later date—with a friend.

Draco suspected this 'friend' was someone either trained to hold him down as he got his arse kicked, or worse, someone from the Ministry.

They would be after him at some point—there were far more important Deatheaters that he at the present, ones who worked alongside with his father to pursue, but once the population of enemies and people to blame for all of the murders dwindled, they would search for Draco. Perhaps even plaster his face along the walls, cheering that the aftermath was over.

There would be time to think about his past later—particularly when his new home consisted of a cell in Azkaban. For now, the blonde would think of a temporary solution.

**::2::**

On a particularly foggy and grey morning, Draco found himself in front of the RSPCA shelter in London. He stared at the entrance for a moment, wondering if taking in a mongrel was really the best idea.

He had no one else to turn to—and really, how hard was it take care of a dog? They weren't particularly intelligent and simply needed three things to survive—food, water, and a place to sleep.

It sounded pretty straightforward to the youngest Malfoy, and with renewed confidence, he entered the shelter.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. Dry kibble, cheap cleanser, and the odor of urine wafted through the air. He wrinkled his nose. Undeterred, Draco followed the cartoonish signs labeled DOGS.

The barking and whimpering combined echoed against the hard concrete walls, furry faces staring at him, trying to get closer to their new visitor. It was quite possibly one of the more depressing things he had seen in his life—those overanxious, overexcited mutts each trying to outdo its neighbor. Their eyes all cried the same plea, however—_take me with you. _

Walking past the maze of kennels, Draco saw some vicious dogs, snarling as he got close. Some huddled in a corner, looking mournfully at him in the corner of their eyes. Ultimately, the wizard was quite sure he wasn't going to find what he was looking for and nearly turned around and left—except he found himself inching closer to a chocolate-colored Labrador, who eyed him with growing excitement.

When he finally decided to kneel down and offer a short pat with his pinky finger (no need to risk all of his fingers), the dog, managing to fit its muzzle through the bars, gave him a particularly slobbery kiss on his nose.

"Eugh!" spat out the wizard, who stumbled back and wiped his face, glaring at the animal, who simply raised its paw at him in attempts to have him return. "That was disgusting. Stupid mutt."

The aforementioned mutt simply stared at him in adoration.

"Look, I need a big, tough dog. A dog who'll bite an intruder's face off. What are you going to do? _Lick _him to death?"

Draco wondered when his life had gotten to the point to where he began to speak to _dogs. _An odd tingling burst in his chest. He wondered if the dog was carrying any diseases.

Cocking its head, the dog seemed to ask, _Well? What are you waiting for? _

"One night. If you mess up, I'm taking you back here," mumbled the blonde, taking the information card from the kennel.

The shelter kept him there for an additional hour, asking him questions about his application and then explaining how to care for a dog.

He was quite glad to be out of the place. The dog seemed to agree, as it dragged him outside with remarkable speed.

"You better do your job, dog. Your 'adoption fee' ate into my rent money," grouched the new owner.

The dog grinned.

**::3:: **

The next twenty-four hours passed in absolute chaos. Draco had found out the hard way that his chosen mutt had a particular fondness for chewing dragon-skin boots, ruining a pair in approximately ten minutes.

The beast also seemed to adore seeking out anything of value and then destroying it to bits. Draco hadn't had a wink of sleep, what with the mongrel first deciding the bed was also a giant chew toy, and then later passing out beside him, successfully managing to take up almost the whole of the bed.

To make matters worse, Draco was also horrified to learn that he was, in fact, responsible for any…_excrement _the foul beast happened to expel while on their daily jaunts. Despite the fact that he was living in a hovel at the moment, Draco still happened to retain _some _standards, and one of them was that he would never, ever pick up the rank waste of a beast lower than him.

"You," growled the irate blonde, "are going right back to that place this morning."

The mutt simply stared up at him vapidly, oozing a sort of pathetic adoration as it watched the youngest Malfoy ready himself for the trip back to London.

"Come on, you imbecilic animal," he said as he held the leash firmly in one hand and readied himself for the walk down the stairs—perhaps the most dangerous part of all, as the canine seemed to enjoy walking _him _as painfully as possible. Draco's left arm still ached from the 'walk' yesterday.

As he left the building, a familiar prickling sensation at the base of his neck warned him of the looming figure that had been around prior. He whirled around, successfully trapping himself in the tangle of leash as he tried to get to his wand.

It was during this incredibly ungraceful and particularly humiliating scene that a low growl ripped through his tense flailing. Bewildered, Draco paused, glancing down at the animal beside him, its teeth bared, the light glinting off them like a silent reaffirmation of its warning.

The cloaked figure had since departed, and Draco was left still quite befuddled with a garish shade of red leash wrapped around his waist. After freeing himself, the mutt—having decided that the danger had passed—was back to eyeing him with garish adoration.

Draco patted its head. "Good dog," he murmured faintly, still unsure of the events that had unfolded, but at least sure of one thing.

He would try to get a large bone from the deli shop on his way home from work today.

Perhaps the dog wasn't such a bad idea after all.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_That's it for the first part. This will be fairly short—most likely three or four chapters only, and it's summer so I'll be able to get them up soon. _

_Yes, this will be Draco/Harry slash (with some decent smut sprinkled in later hopefully)_

_I couldn't figure out what sort of dog Draco would actually have, so I decided to be unoriginal and steal Tom Felton's dog from real life (who is not a lab, I believe, but it is brown)._

_Review please, they make me smile, and don't you think I should smile more?_

_-B._

_xx_


	2. Chapter 2

**::4::**

"I really am sorry about this, Oliver," muttered Harry for the millionth time as he swerved to miss yet another gaping bystander. Whom they were staring at was a mystery—he _was _Harry Potter, after all, but Oliver had made his niche in professional quidditch, and thus had carved quite the mark for himself. It was amusing, if only slightly, to be able to tell the difference between muggles and magic-practising folk so easily.

However, perhaps leaving the top down on Wood's convertible had set them up for such an audience.

"Don't worry about it, mate," answered the brunette good-naturedly, "I'm used to it."

"But you came here to get away from this," argued Harry weakly, though personally he wondered how Wood ever thought he would get away from his fans by visiting _Harry—_being a saviour and all that rot.

"It's good just to spend time with you, Harry. They don't matter." It was such an earnest reply that the darker-haired man found himself sighing again, frustrated with his Hogwarts counterpart.

And it had only been two days.

Harry wasn't entirely sure what possessed him to say _yes _to Oliver's request a month ago, but he supposed he could have blamed it on the fact that up until a month ago, everything had gone along swimmingly brilliant in his life—for the first time ever.

He had a new life, one completely severed from the looming threat of Voldemort, and had since been enjoying it quite thoroughly—he chose to support the new center for orphaned children by taking on a job as the trip and schooling co-ordinator as well offering his services as a mentor for some of the older kids. It hardly paid anything, but he didn't mind. It was a nice break from the expectations Hogwarts seemed to have for him—to be either an auror or a healer was nice in theory, but Harry simply wanted a break from everything. He still loved magic, and still loved being a wizard, but he found himself curious about his abilities _outside _magic.

Which was what had led him to his current position, working specifically with those suffering from familial severing due to the war.

He was happy with his life—happy with his friends, with the job he had chosen. He spoke to Ron and Hermione almost daily, and he suspected they would be announcing an engagement soon after their recent discussion on possibly adopting one of the kids he worked with.

"Well, we're almost there," shouted the green-eyed wizard over the rumbling of the lorries beside him, "and the shelter said they knew they had Albus with them, so hopefully it won't take long to get him."

Then there was Albus—a chocolate lab Harry had adopted as a young pup for companionship. The dog, while rambunctious at times, meant well and had taken to Harry quickly, accompanying him to as many places as possible. The children loved having him around (though it had taken remarkable persuading on his part to allow the animal to go to work with him) and all were heartbroken upon hearing the news of his escape from the grooming parlour a few weeks back. Knowing Albus, Harry suspected his dog had eluded animal control authorities for quite a while before his capture.

Pulling into the parking lot of the shelter, Harry barely kept his excitement from showing. He'd missed that animal, even if he happened to be absolutely insufferable at times.

"Harry," shouted Wood, after the ebony-haired man had exited the vehicle, "you don't mind if I pop into the café down the street, do you? I'm absolutely dying for one of those iced mochas."

"Of course not," answered Hogwarts' savior predictably, and he tossed the keys to his friend. Secretly, Harry was relieved. He wasn't sure what it was about the other man, but he had felt an odd sort of tension in the air—one he couldn't explain without amplifying the awkwardness already.

With that, Oliver left, tossing a lazy farewell past his shoulder before pulling back into the clogged streets of London, leaving Harry to finally find his pet and take him home.

**::5::**

"What do you mean, there's been a mistake?" asked Harry, feeling a growing pit of panic in his stomach. He pictured a forlorn Albus being dragged into the death chambers of the shelter, who would, no doubt, be wondering where his master was.

The young woman at the counter smiled at him politely, the sort of smile that Harry knew was just for show, "Our supervisor is coming down now to explain everything. Why don't you just sit tight and I'm sure we'll get everything straightened out soon?"

A knot of muscle showed at his jaw as he gritted his teeth, and Harry knew he was doing a poor job at pretending to be a good sport, but he didn't care.

After a few long and drawn-out moments passed, a robust and sweaty man with beady eyes greeted Harry, his words paused between every panting breath. The fluorescent lights above made his greasy skin shine, speckled with bouts of roseacea and freckles.

He reminded Harry far too much of his uncle, and the deep resentment that followed such a thought was hard to squelch.

"Mr…Potter," wheezed the portly individual whom Harry was trying very hard to smile at, "Why don't you…you come into my…."

"Office?" supplied the young man, stretching his lips in what he hoped was a polite manner.

"Yes, yes," the supervisor dribbled out, his breaths becoming more even, and the deep red sheen disappearing from his balding head.

"Now," he said, after leading Harry down a narrow hallway and into a small, cramped office, "it appears that the paperwork managed to get mixed up somehow, Mr. Potter, and we're very, very sorry about that—I know all about the work you do for those kids…"

"Will you just tell me what happened?" asked Harry, his impatience finally getting to him.

"It would seem, sir, that someone has adopted your dog. The good news is, it was only a few days ago, so I'm sure that some sort of understanding can be reached."

A gush of air escaped the younger man's lips, and the relief was perhaps the sweetest thing he had felt then. "Oh, that's all? Well, surely, you can call them, and explain the mixup?"

"Yes, and you can count on me, Mr. Potter. In fact, I'll call him right now to tell him that you're here. Would you mind waiting while I do so?"

"Not at all." He didn't, really—and had even forgotten about Oliver.

The man pulled out a large batch of files and spent a fair amount of time shifting through them before finding what he needed. Harry kept quiet, though the impatience was clawing at him again.

"Here we go," the man said finally, with a great flourish of his hands, "Draco Malfoy. Quite the name, isn't it?"

And that was precisely the moment that Harry felt his life go straight to shit.

**::6::**

His phone rang just as he was he was exiting the shower, and the beast, previously lying quite languidly upon his bed, barked loudly.

"Yes, yes," muttered the sopping blonde, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear before pushing the dog away from the screaming device. He rather hated phones, and barely understood how they worked, but numerous job applications had requested one, and despite however unsightly and unseemly it might be for a pureblood to be reduced to using such muggle methods, Draco was still forced to get one.

At least it had been a fairly simple concept to grasp. "Hello?" drawled the young Malfoy, who was holding a towel around his waist.

"Mr. Malfoy, yes, this is the RSPCA calling. I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but there happens to be a bit of problem."

"Oh?" Draco was bored already. Perhaps they were asking for money. Even if he _had _money, Draco could think of millions of things he would rather spend it on than a pathetic phone call.

"Yes, the dog you happened to adopt a few days ago—you still have it, correct?"

His nose curled into a sneer. What did this man care what he did with the animal? "Yes, if you must know," he answered rudely, staring at the aforementioned dog as it licked his hand. He shook it away. Draco did not want to be covered in the germs that beast had buried itself in.

"Well, you see, that dog already had an owner. He shouldn't have been adopted out, and I'm sorry to ask you this, but his rightful owner is here, requesting that I ask for it back, and…well, surely you understand?"

"What kind of stupid question is that?" snapped the blonde, who was currently scratching at a spot behind the dog's left ear. Its tongue lolled, eyes closed, clearly pleased with the attention. "Tell them to get another dog, this one is mine. And really, what kind of incompetent moron _loses _a brainless animal?"

There was a brief silence, and Draco nearly hung up right there, but suddenly there was a loud scrape echoing in his head and a very, very familiar voice bellowing quite angrily at him.

"I swear to Merlin, Malfoy, if you don't give me my dog back I'll hex you to here and bloody back!"

The phone fell from his hand, and Draco would later tell himself it was due to his wet hands rather than surprise. What did he care if _Potter _was screaming at him?

"_Potter? _Oh, this is rich. Of _course, _of all the bloody incompetent _idiots _in this city, it would _have _to be you—"

"Shut up, you vile little snake, I can't believe you stole my dog. What have you been doing to him? Using him for some sort of magic practice while you hide like a coward?"

"_For your information," _Draco hissed out prissily, "I didn't steal your idiot dog, and it's doing _just _fine here. Perhaps _too _well, even—no wonder it's so undisciplined, you probably let it drink of gold—"

"Stop calling Albus _it!" _

"Oh, Merlin, you named it _Albus? _No wonder you lost it!"

"What did I say—"

"It's a dog, scarhead. Not a person—and thus your precious little pronouns do not apply. Though I imagine you adore using such terms for even the inanimate, you always did love vermin."

"Albus is not vermin!"

Harry was quite distressed to see how far his bantering skills had diminished—Draco was very nearly winning their argument, and he was not okay with that at all.

"Of course it isn't, do you really think I'd allow _vermin _in my place? I'm not _you." _It was spat out with the sort of venom that Draco hadn't been able to use in quite a while. Goading Potter was perhaps the most fun he had in a long while.

"That's it," shouted the Gryffindor, "I'm hunting you down, you…you…you _snake!" _

The phone line clicked, and Draco frowned, sitting on his bed for a moment in order to think. The dog leapt up beside him, panting happily in his face, sharing his scent of cheap dog kibble and wet dog fur.

"This is all your fault," admonished the Slytherin finally, as he began to dress. The dog stared at him, still gazing at him with that odd sort of adoration that Draco supposed applied to all mutts.

"I suppose I would run away too, though," he later admitted, fastening his belt, and then sitting back down beside the animal to put his socks on, "what with the name _Albus _and all. You probably didn't have much luck with the lady dogs…"

Draco paused. "Why am I talking to _you?" _

The dog simply replied in one of the two ways he knew how—a wet, slobbery lick on the side of the pale man's face.

"_Ugh!" _

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_God, I missed writing their banter._

_The next piece should be up soon. C:_

_-B._

_xx_


	3. Chapter 3

**::7::**

"Hey, Harry," Oliver asked, his voice more than a little tinged with anxiety as he fought to keep his coffee in its Styrofoam cup, "Why exactly was that man running after us?" The buildings alongside them were going past in a blur, and the quidditch star had the suspicion that the only reason Harry hadn't gone and killed someone was because his famous Gryffindor luck had yet to part ways with him.

"Something about confidential documents," bit out the seething driver, who ran yet another red light, "though, _really, _had they not made a mess to begin with I wouldn't be off trying to hunt down _Draco _sodding _Malfoy_—really, of all the prissy gits in London…"

That was the other thing—what exactly did Malfoy have to do with anything? Oliver was suddenly regretting ever leaving for his coffee, especially since it had since gone warm and his stomach was a bit queasy with the erratic and incredibly illegal driving technique Harry was currently employing.

The car suddenly lurched to a hard stop. Harry twisted around in his seat, narrowing his eyes at the street sign behind him. "That's the street." His emerald irises grew darker with determination, and Harry growled, "Oliver?"

"Yes, Harry?" murmured the other man, wisely choosing not to say anything else.

"Hold on."

A flurry of cars squealed and honked as Harry wove between the lanes behind him, making a complete U-turn in the oncoming lane (where a very large truck narrowly managed to miss them completely) and then their miraculously unscathed vehicle hummed as it inched forward into the depths of a shadowed alley.

The drive had since slowed down, and Oliver, while still nursing a wildly thrumming heartbeat, was otherwise relieved.

A wrinkle of frustration and distaste flittered across Harry's face before his telltale bout of suspicion got hold of him—he had always been far too suspicious for his own good, and the chestnut-haired passenger beside him knew that he was in for a very long day.

"This can't be right—he must have put down a false address, there's no way a prissy, slimy git like _Malfoy _would live here." The streaming light above them hit his spectacles, causing glimmering drops of gold to dance among the dirtied street of the building beside him.

Oliver chose not to respond, for fear of encouraging the ebony-haired male further, but he felt inclined to quietly agree. It simply made no sense that someone like Draco Malfoy, who practically walked around covered in money from the day he was born, to reside in such a place. The scent of urine wafted past his nose and he grimaced.

"Hey, you two." grunted a passerby, whom Oliver found to be the source of the vile scent, eyeing their car. His hair was long and straggly, matching the beard hanging from his chin. Oliver spied what looked like to be a piece of gum between the knotted tresses of grey. The man's red-rimmed eyes stared back at him in a watery gaze, suggesting he had lived without any real care for quite a while. "Got any money? Haven't eaten for days, you see—"

The beggar's tirade happened to be cut short by a loud bark. Harry's head jerked up, and in one grimy, cracked window was a very familiar canine face looking back at him.

"Watch the car, Oliver," commanded Harry, who was uncharacteristically impatient and ignored Oliver's whinge about it not being safe at all to be alone in a place like that.

The beggar cackled, revealing rotting teeth behind his cracked lips, coughing for an alarming amount of time after doing so, and whispered, far too close to Oliver for his taste, _"Don't worry, boy. It's at nighttime that the demons come out."_

"Oh," he muttered nervously, "Brilliant, then."

**::8::**

If it was possible, the interior of the building was far more downtrodden than its exterior. The steel door screeched in protest when opened, slamming with an angry echo down the darkened hallway, where even Harry was unsure he should proceed. Cracked wooden doors revealed tarnished gold suite numbers and behind each emanated mysterious noises suggesting the characteristics of the building's inhabitants.

Glancing at the crumpled form in his curled fist, Harry shook himself out of trepidation and continued down, a rickety spiral staircase looming ominously above him. Hoping to the gods above that the wiry ascent would manage to hold his weight, Harry tensed at every squeak of resistance, letting a gush of air out when he reached the second floor.

Brightly-colored posters and graffiti littered the walls and floor, the domestic battle from one room beside him echoing in the hall—_You disgusting crackhead son of a bitch!_

A number gleamed in the flickering fluorescent light above, and Harry, with confusion settling into the edges of his seething anger, raised his hand to knock on the wood in front of him. He hadn't the chance to knock, however, when Draco suddenly found himself face to face with his school enemy, red blooming underneath the glittering emeralds as his visitor made his anxiety about the environment he was in known.

"_Potter," _Draco spat out venomously, no longer having the patience to simply banter as his pride and dignity were at stake, "Just what exactly do you think you're doing here?"

Harry was surprised to spy a less-than-regal living environment past the crook of Draco's arm, the skin of which was curiously barely lighter than the hallway light above. It just didn't fit the memories of Malfoy at Hogwarts, a snotty, sharp-tongued bully who threw his money around as easily as his insults.

This Malfoy was different—he was still as prissy as Harry remembered, with stark white hair and mercury orbs glittering with viciousness, but his clothes, while still undoubtedly expensive, were worn in the subtlest ways. A frayed neckline slipped past his silvery locks, leading down Malfoy's body like a map, revealing scuffed boots and slightly washed-out slacks.

An overjoyed _woof _and a furry body pushed past Malfoy's form in the nearly dilapidated doorway, and Albus deemed it appropriate to plant two paws against his broad shoulders, licking the familiar olive-skinned cheek that met his wet nose.

Pulled out of his reverie by the wet tongue on his face and slightly concerned at the amount of attention he was employing to the short flashes of ivory skin that caught his eye, Harry straightened up, the hardened bitterness in his eyes running past his expression, settling into his clenched jaw.

"I want my dog back, Malfoy."

The aforementioned dog dropped from Harry's body, sitting between the two men with a thumping tail, clearly unaware of the animosity brimming between his two favorite people.

"And I said no, _scarhead, _or are you deaf as well as dumb?" snarled Malfoy, who shoved Harry back, making him slam into the door behind him. Someone told him to shut up, though at which wizard Harry was not sure.

"I have proof of having him before you, Malfoy. If I get the authorities involved, you won't have a bloody chance," snapped Harry, "and need I remind you that I do have more standing in the Wizarding world than _you _at the moment? I could get you thrown into Azkaban faster than you could blink."

Malfoy was slightly taken aback. He had never known Potter—sickeningly sweet, adored, _polite _Potter—to threaten such severe blackmail. Though Potter had made his hatred for anyone involved in the Dark Arts clear, the lone Malfoy had never thought the golden boy had a shred of Slytherin capability running through his brain. The light-haired wizard knew he hadn't a choice. It was either risk exposure to Potter's little friends, whom had for the last few months, seemed too busy to think of him, and deal with the chaos that came with it, or give up the meager source of protection he'd found in the Gryffindor's mutt.

The silver eyes narrowed with angry self-defeat, and Malfoy spat out, before he could change his mind, "Fine, Potter. Take your precious idiot mutt. I've no use for it anyway."

Albus, still staring at him with his typical adoration, seemed not to understand the anger in Draco's face. A wet muzzle nuzzled his hand, and the canine was intent on licking every inch of skin available to rid of the tension rippling through the narrow shoulders.

He pushed the dog away, sneering at the desperate attempt it made to follow him back inside the flat, ignoring the whimpers of protest that it made after the door slammed.

"Come on, Albus," Harry said, clapping his hands in an attempt to get the dog to follow, but he simply refused to budge, having decided that howling mournfully would be a better way to get the Slytherin's attention.

"Come—" Harry growled in frustration as Albus fought against the hand fastened around his collar, "Come _on, _Albus. What do you want to stay here for? He's a git, anyway."

The golden eyes stared up at him silently, and upon Harry's bewildered stare, Albus howled again.

Behind the door, Draco felt an inkling of respect for the loyalty the mutt was showing to him, and he even felt the slightest tinge of sadness for the loss of its company.

Had anyone asked, though, Draco would have pasted on his patented sneer and made a comment on how many imbeciles seemed to be hanging around him lately.

**::9::**

Oliver was much relieved when Harry finally exited the doorway, with a large, squirming dog in his arms. The raven-haired man made a comment about how the stairwell nearly collapsed with the added weight of a dog intent on gaining his own autonomy back, but that all was well and did he mind driving, because with his luck Albus would jump out of the car and search for his Slytherin counterpart. The chestnut-haired man was even more relieved that he would no longer have to put up with any more of Harry's driving for the day.

"It would be terrible if I had to go _back, _and see that _smug _smirk on that bastard's face," Harry groaned, his muscles rippling as he held onto the wailing dog in his lap.

As the two headed back home, Oliver began preparing an excuse for his return back to his team, for the whole day had been an odd mash of Draco-and-Harry tension that he wanted no part of.

He also disliked dogs. Bitten as a child, Oliver had never cared for the little monsters since, and therefore decided that, for the sake of his own sanity and health, an early reprieve from the chaotic life of Harry Potter was in order.

After finally closing the door behind them firmly when returning to Harry's modest estate, the dog was finally released, where he proceeded to bark and wail in an absolute state of tension and confusion. Harry looked thoroughly bewildered, and the seemed like he felt the slightest betrayed.

"What do you mean, you're leaving?" asked Harry, already feeling guilty for chasing his guest away with the antics of Albus and Malfoy.

"Look, Harry," Oliver sighed, deciding the truth meant more than any sort of ridiculous excuse he could come up with, "I just want to relax, catch a movie, that sort of thing. I honestly hadn't counted on Malfoy riling you up to the point where you needed to rehash all of the ridiculous rivalry from Hogwarts—"

"He had my dog!" he sputtered defensively, deciding it was unfair of Oliver to assume he'd have any more contact with Malfoy.

"Harry," Oliver said, in that horribly patient and half-amused sort of way, "we both know this isn't just going to go away. Somehow Malfoy's going to inch his way back into your…er, line of fire, so to speak, and it's _all _you're going to think about until one of you loses."

"Where the fuck is this coming from? That's not true at all—"

"I'll talk to you later, mate. I have a plane to catch. I'll call you though, yeah?" Oliver said, cutting him off as he exited through the door, his taxi idling in the driveway, its calm purr seeming to convey confirmation that life was just about to get a bit simpler.

Harry stood in his kitchen, long after Oliver had gone, wondering if the whole world had gone mad. Albus, still wailing outside in the yard, made Harry decide he needed to call Ron and Hermione. They would know what to do, and the dog loved visitors.

The sooner that Albus was able to adapt back to his normal life, the sooner Harry would be able to forget about Draco Malfoy and the disturbing things Oliver had said.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_Okay, I lied. It seems like this may take a bit longer than my original estimate, but it's not going to be 328410238 chapters or anything, so please stick with me. C:_

_I'm also going to try my best to update this twice a week, so also keep in mind that this _will _not be abandoned or anything of the sort, as I know how frustrating that can be,_

_xx,_

_-B_


	4. Chapter 4

_Note: I feel I should mention now that this fic isn't going to follow any occurrences after book 5. Partly because Deathly Hallows doesn't fit what _I _want for my storyline, and because I am a terrible HP fan and have yet to get to reading it. _

**::10::**

Two days after Gryffindor's golden boy snatched the dog away, quite unfairly, in his opinion, Draco found himself with three very big problems.

Having housed the mongrel for only a few days, the sole fact that he was out more than just a few hundred pounds astounded him, but there was nothing he could do—aside from feeding on the dog food he'd gotten, of course, but the light-haired Slytherin was not nearly desperate enough for such actions. In retrospect, Draco supposed he should have looked at his budget closer before getting a dog that inhaled his money like its kibble. Purebloods were not taught the art of saving money—there was a joke, in fact, about that—because most assumed money would not be an issue.

Well, for Draco Malfoy, it was an issue.

Truth be told, he would not have been aware of his dwindling resources—he'd only been on his own for a short while, after all, and still had much to learn about living like a particular bright-haired Weasel family—had the aging landlord not firmly tacked onto his door the red eviction notice a few hours prior.

Having no place to live, however, was the least of his problems, since Draco was apparently experiencing his negative karma returns upon him tenfold this week. The night prior, for example, the owner at the petrol shop he had worked at was mugged and apparently decided to close his shop down for good immediately—which meant he only had his last paystub to live off on, and it was barely enough for a meal.

None of these problems struck him as even remotely important when he thought about what he would have to do next. It wasn't something the prudish man would have likely admitted to anyone except himself, but Draco had found himself in a bit of a bind after the war. Having no one to depend on was hard, but not being able to depend on his magical upbringing as well was even harder.

Draco was delighted when his wand was returned. That same day he attempted spell after spell—from a basic _Avis _spell to _Diffindio_—and promptly failed. His wandless magic fared no better. It was simply as if Draco Malfoy had woken up and become his most hated form of being—a muggle.

Not much longer after that, Draco gave up on magic altogether. After all, who was going to help him? Death Eater anti-sentiment was so strong in the Wizarding world at the moment that even attempting to reach out to someone could risk his own well-being. He heard rumors when visiting Diagon Alley for information about the current trials on some of the more powerful Death Eaters his own father had been in allegiance with—rumors that Death Eaters were mysteriously disappearing, and that no one was going to be held to any consequence for whatever may have happened to such individuals.

Because no one cared, that was why. And that meant, thought Draco bitterly, as he tucked his wand away, he truly was on his own.

**::11::**

The Dumbledore Center for Wizarding Youth, for all intents and purposes, was not just a place to house children without a place to go. It also offered joint programs for the rest of the community. Those who hadn't been able to take their NEWTs, for example, were able to attend a refresher course at the center and complete their education. There was also a daycare for single-parent families, workshops, and many other opportunities.

Despite its wide variety of offerings to every conceivable demographic, most people still saw it as an orphanage.

"They certainly seem much happier today, Harry," said Madam Hirsch pleasantly, her plump face flushed as she took his wand.

Harry smiled cordially, hanging up his jacket on one of the chrome hooks adorning the walls beside him. Part of the center was designed for children and schooling in mind, so sometimes it reminded him of a primary school.

Wands were confiscated by Madam Hirsch herself, the coordinator for events and schooling at the center. The argument was that many of the children at the center had suffered traumatic magical events, and to minimize any harm, all magic was supervised. The rule had been impeded into the organization after a boy nearly killed another during an anxiety attack.

Accidental magic, of course, was still common, particularly for the younger ones in the program. The children were divided by age and gender first, and then by circumstance.

The circumstances varied, but those who had experienced the war firsthand, for example, were put in a 'highest need' sector, and had more supervisors and adults to accompany them.

Sectors mattered little to how the children attended schooling and events—those were simply categorized by age, level, and gender—but for evening activities, it was important, especially since many of the higher-needs children suffered from night terrors, insomnia, and other assorted nighttime ailments.

The chorus of children that screamed Albus's name as he bounded toward them seemed deafening. Harry smiled. They really did love him, and judging by the dog's equally affectionate reaction, Albus lived for days like today. He often visited the youngest children first, as during this time of day they were in the library for storytime.

"The new tutoring schedule is up on the tackboard—I have you slated for Tuesday and Thursday night." called Madam Hirsch as she locked his wand away in the china cabinet by the library entrance.

The library was the first room on his right when Harry first arrived to the center. Across the hall was the arts and crafts room, and then the rest of the neighboring rooms were classrooms, each separated by subject. Directly at the end of the hall was the dining room, which housed an adjoining kitchen. The bedrooms were at the second and third levels.

He doubted, though, that he would _really _know how many rooms were in the vast architecture. It was simply too large for him to explore, and he suspected it would have been unprofessional had he done so.

Harry looked at his schedule, and sighed, knowing his day was going to be long. He had three nightly hour-long tutoring sessions with a maximum of five students each. During the day, his duties rotated from supervision of two main groups—one primary-school group and one upper-level group. This meant that whatever his group was scheduled to do, he often had to prepare for and also clean up after. Today, he was scheduled to supervise and assist some upper-levels with a potions prep course; then after lunch he had to go join some primary children in the greenhouse, where they were learning to care for their own wolfsbane.

"Hi, Mr. Potter!" shouted a girl as she walked past him, following her peers in a neat single-file line.

"Hi, Sarah," greeted Harry. It might be a long day, thought the dark-haired wizard with a smile, but it was worth it.

**::12::**

Draco sneered, shaking his head when seeing yet another poster advertising a nearby shelter. It had flashy colors and a picture of a smiling man spooning soup into a bowl. He wasn't _homeless. _Simply relocating. It was different.

Shifting the bag on his shoulder again, he trudged along the sidewalk, quietly wondering why he had chosen to bring so many things with him.

Right. Because he was _relocating. _With his thoughts humming in tune with his shuffling footsteps, Draco nearly missed the young boy on the corner, offering copies of _The Daily Prophet _to passerby. He ignored the shrill call and continued on his way.

Later, when the day had grown a bit darker and a bit colder, Draco stopped at a bench to rest and to evaluate his options. Beside him was an abandoned copy of the very same Prophet that had been offered to him before.

And right there, in the center, set snugly between two columns rambling on about two drunken men who managed to splinch themselves during apparition, was a textbox informing him about the fairly new Center for Wizarding Youth, asking all of those interested in a job position to please inquire at the address listed. There seemed to be plenty of openings, judging by the list it provided. Draco wondered what that said about the place as a whole.

He looked up, startled by the rumbling of a large bus driving past, to find himself face-to-face with precisely where the ad noted. The center was a surprisingly large, looming building that could have rivaled Hogwarts in size, except its architecture was more modern and conservative, probably to keep from rising suspicion from the muggles that happened to drive by.

Looking back at the ad again, and then to the building, and finally to his luggage, Draco set his lips into a thin line. It wouldn't hurt to inquire. He _was _right next to the building, after all.

He took a final look at the paper in his hand, thrust his luggage under a large bush, smoothed his hair back, and then walked across the street, pausing only at the door. He knocked three times—firm, short raps that he hoped didn't seem of someone who was…_relocating. _

A plump-faced woman answered the door. She had curly brown hair that was held back neatly in a bun, dark brown eyes shining with warmth, and lips that seemed to stretch far too long into a smile.

Draco grudgingly admitted to himself that despite the ghastly muggle clothing and horrid color scheme, she seemed…_nice, _at the very least.

"Yes, dear?" she said warmly, with one hand on the door knob and the other fiddling with a piece of string on her jacket.

Jolted out of his thoughts, Draco gave her his best charming smile. "I, er, read that you were hiring?"

"Oh!" The woman clapped her hands, "Please do come in. We really are in need of some more help around here."

She paused for a moment, allowing the blonde to look at his surroundings.

It wasn't near the caliber of living he was used to, but Draco supposed he couldn't be picky, and the size of the library in the corner of his eye looked promising.

"Was there a position you were looking for specifically, mister…"

He hadn't thought of that. His name had irrevocably been tainted by his family's activities with the Dark Lord. It wouldn't be wise to share with her his real name, especially with someone who worked at a center named after a barmy wizard.

Irony really had a way with him. The woman was staring at him inquisitively, and Draco frantically tried to scrounge up a false name, finally glancing at his surroundings for ideas. He spied a raven hopping from branch to branch through the window outside.

"Corvus, ma'am. And I'm really available for any position you have." he finished for her.

She seemed to not notice the lull in his response. Draco very nearly let the relief show on his face before mentally chastising himself and standing up straighter.

"Right, Corvus. Well, Mr. Corvus, do you have any references or prior experience?"

Draco doubted the man that owned the petrol station would have much to say about him, and doubted any of it would be positive.

"I'm afraid not. I've just relocated, you see, and so I'm fairly new in the area."

The woman gave him a small smile. "Well, perhaps…if you don't mind, we could place you in one of our sanitation assistant positions."

Sanitation assistant? What kind of cryptic title was that?

"I could very well give it a try. Do you mind detailing what…duties would be expected of me?"

"Well, we do have a lot of children here, and clean-up is always a chore for the supervisors and mentors. You would be cleaning up after each meal and cleaning up after certain activities, like in the arts and crafts room. We would also have you assist with laundry, as well as making sure the bathrooms were tidied up," the woman leaned in close, speaking in a low whisper, "sometimes the children have…_accidents, _as well. We try not to make a production of it, so they don't feel badly."

Draco did not want this job. It sounded dirty, long, and worst of all, required actual effort.

"Your shifts would rotate between coming in at nine AM and leaving at five PM, and coming in at 6 PM and leaving at 2 AM," the woman continued, seemingly not bothered by his lack of commentary.

"It sounds like something I would be happy to do for you, ma'am, if you feel I would be a proper fit for the position, of course."

Draco was very good at lying, and even better at cordial bullshitting.

"Well, it sounds like you'd be a perfect fit for the center, Mr. Corvus. I don't happen to have formal application with me at the moment, but if you leave your contact information with me, I'll be sure to get it to you."

Oh, bollocks.

"Right, well, at the moment, I haven't a telephone, and I'm staying at a friends'. I could stop by tomorrow morning, if that works for you."

The corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled. That was a good sign, Draco thought.

"Oh, it would be lovely if you could come by and meet everyone! And please, call me Madam Hirsch."

"Right. Well, Madam Hirsch, I suppose I'll see you tomorrow morning at…" he trailed off, waiting for her suggestion.

"Is seven-thirty too early? The children won't be up for another hour, of course, but we'll be able to get our affairs in order then and perhaps you could even stay for breakfast!"

Draco rarely got up before ten in the morning.

"No, seven-thirty it is," Draco opened the door, looking back at her, "see you then, Madam."

"Thank you, young man!"

"No, thank you. Good-bye for now."

The woman smiled again, waved, and shut the door.

Bloody hell, what had he gotten himself into?

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_Sorry this is so late, I've been remarkably swamped with coursework and all sorts of drama lately. I hope to get the next chapter up this weekend._

_Hopefully you've enjoyed the latest installment!_

_Fun fact: _Corvus _is the genus name for the raven._

_xx,_

_-B._


	5. Chapter 5

**::13::**

Humiliation had become almost commonplace for Draco Malfoy when he'd failed to kill Dumbledore. Though he had still fallen by the wand of Severus, the young wizard and his father had together single-handedly ruined the Malfoy name, at least according to the Dark Lord, and while both were allowed to continue their allegiance alongside the rest of the Death Eaters, it was clear that the respect that both blondes used to command solely by presence was no more. Draco suspected Voldemort had kept them both on for entertainment value more than anything else—and their comrades apparently thought the same, as the never-ending remarks and spells cast their way would attest.

Lucius had spent the rest of the war trying to get back into his precious Lord's good graces. Draco was often volunteered for the more distasteful forms of clean-up that happened to follow much of their activities. Draco had attempted to protest once. Lucius had forced him to undergo _Crucio _for that, and then icily requested that he do as he was told.

Their manor, once tidy and a place of pride for him, soon became nothing more than a hovel of death and dark magic. Draco's room was chosen for both human and animal sacrifice alike. Voldemort himself had requested the use of that room, likely knowing that the youngest Malfoy lived there.

The night that Voldemort had sacrificed a muggle virgin—that had been the night that Draco knew that the mark wasn't for him.

She had been young, the virgin. Younger than Draco, even. Voldemort had laughed when she begged for her life, and had laughed harder when she begged for death. He never used _Avada Kedavra _when playing with his toys. No, he liked to prolong their suffering. When she finally did die, Voldemort had tossed her aside like some sort of ragdoll, deciding she was no longer of use to him.

Lucius gave him one look and told him to get rid of the body.

So Draco did. What choice did he have? That was the night he learned what burning flesh smelled like. It had made him vomit, bile mixing with tears. He'd never been able to use the incendio spell after that.

While the death of the virgin had marked the start of his demise, his life hadn't truly gone to hell until the night of Cornelius Fudge's visit.

There had been a reason, after all, that Fudge refused to believe Harry Potter's dismal warning about the return of the Dark Lord, and despite what that barmy headmaster of his had said, it truth of it lied in the fact the Cornelius Fudge had pledged his own loyalty to Voldemort right alongside Crouch Jr.

And the night that Cornelius Fudge came to warn Voldemort of Harry Potter's plans to create his own army-"Army?" laughed the dark wizard, "of _children, _you mean?"-was the night that his own loyalties were questioned.

Voldemort had asked him directly, for the first time, if what Fudge claimed to be true. The blonde, struck by a familiar rush of cold when addressed by his father's surperior, glanced first at Lucius for advice on how to proceed. Lucius stared back at him with silent warning.

His answer echoed in the halls, effectively reminding not only Draco but all of the others within earshot of what he'd told their beloved master.

"No. I mean..no, not that I know of, sir." He stammered, knowing that somehow he'd mixed up his words, mixed up his thoughts, and started a lie; trying to fix it would be risking his own life and his father's. Draco was almost positive the truth and fear showed on his face, that in only a second, that mouth hiding razor-sharp teeth and a forked tongue would open, uttering the words that could so very simply end his life.

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

Draco squeezed his eyes shut, his breath stopped, the rushing of his own fear clouding his head. After a moment the fear gave way to dead silence. He remembered the moment when he slowly opened his eyes again, afraid that the moment he did, he would find himself staring at his own body, or worse, his father's.

One moment Cornelius Fudge was up an about, sickeningly sparkle-eyed with determination and admiration, and the next moment, he was dead.

When meeting his father's eyes, Draco didn't need to hear the thoughts so easily relayed by that stare. The disappointment and fury emanating from it told him all that he needed to know.

**::14::**

Harry was looking forward to getting off work that day. He had managed to swap tutoring shifts that night in order to compromise for his dinner with Hermione and Ron. The raven-haired wizard hadn't seen his two best friends in what felt like a long while, and with all of the recent drama regarding Draco, he was looking forward to something to take his mind off it all.

The hum of children chattering as they walked into the dining hall filled the corridor. Today was Pancake Day, the most favorite day of the week for most children at the centre. Harry, who sometimes joined them for breakfast, hated Pancake Day. Pancake Day meant the sticky, oozing syrup would be brought out, and that those sticky fingers would soon be smeared upon every imaginable surface in his classroom, which meant he had to allow for extra time to clean up.

Madame Hirsch, while a typically jovial woman, seemed even more bouncy than usual. "Hello, Harry," she greeted him, beaming so brightly he nearly felt the need to squint.

"You're in a good mood. Did our budget revision get approved?" answered Harry, knowing full well the budget wasn't due for review for another six months.

"No, no, nothing like that. Oh, I may have found someone to add to the staff here at the centre. Isn't that nice? Oh, he really is the sweetest young man."

Judging by the blush on her face, Harry suspected Madame Hirsch liked him for more than his charming personality. Good-naturedly, however, Harry chose not to comment on that and instead smiled at her.

"What's his name? And what position was he looking at?"

A frown briefly skittered across the middle-aged woman's face, confusion dulling the shine in her eyes. "Oh dear, I seem to have forgotten his first name. It was fairly unique, how odd…" she trailed off, disappearing inside her thoughts for a few moments before her telltale cheer filled her expression again.

"Well, I'm sure I'll remember it later. His last name is Corvus though, I do remember that. Seems a bit hard off, the poor dear. I couldn't offer any more than the janitorial duties. It's too bad, really, I suspect he never got to finish his education, either, if he was willing to take on a job _cleaning." _

Harry stiffened for a moment. While a very nice woman, Madame Hirsch had the unfortunate tendency of thinking of some job types better than others, and being a cleaning assistant ranked the lowest on the list. He supposed it was the way she was brought up—having an upper-class mother and father who, despite losing their riches, still acted as if they were part of the class they had fallen out of. She never held the children and their current lifestyles in such negative thought, and was incredibly sympathetic to their plight. Harry supposed part of Madame Hirsch would always confuse him.

A new person on staff with the sole responsibility of assisting the other janitors certainly seemed like a good idea, however, and _especially _on Pancake Day.

"I'd best be going. Madame. I'll see you for lunch!" the woman smiled, and Harry rushed down the long corridor, knowing that his designated classroom for the day was going to be full of bored primary school children in less than an hour.

**::15::**

Draco smelled the pancakes before he even reached the building—managed to smell them across the street, actually, where he stashed his luggage. The morning so far had not gone well—mostly because he hadn't slept a wink, what with only a bus stop to sit upright at and some bloody gaggle of girls walking past, drunkenly giggling.

He did find a public restroom to clean up at, and despite the dark circles around his eyes, Draco still considered himself much more presentable than anyone else currently on the street that morning, especially the old drunk that cried in his sleep a few streets over.

Madame Hirsch was the one that greeted him. She fussed over his jacket, grabbed his arm, and shoved him into a room with a startling amount of children, all of whom which turned to pin their eyes on him for a moment in an unsettling display of unison.

"I do hope you haven't eaten yet, it's Pancake Day," the woman beside him said, continuing on about what was offered, though she never actually gave him the option to choose, simply piled up a plate with far too much syrup and misshapen cakes for any human being. The woman was incredibly chatty, and her hand had never strayed far from his own throughout her tirade, which made him feel extremely more uncomfortable than he cared to admit.

"Oh, look, there's Harvey and Phoebe, they're two of the tutors here," she said, waving to a copper-haired man with an alarmingly thin frame and the greying, chubby woman next to him.

Madame Hirsch leaned in close, her lips barely grazing the shell of his ear as she whispered, _"Phoebe has a bit of a…facial deformity, so don't stare for too long, okay?"_

Draco jerked his head back, trying to will the creepy-crawly sensation from his shoulders inconspicuously while smiling. Madame Hirsch most certainly was attracted to him, and it was creepy—she was old enough to be his mother. Though his own mother didn't _look _her age, it was a Malfoy thing, to age well.

"Hello," the woman named Phoebe said as he sat down. Draco could see why the Hirsch woman had thought to warn him—the left side of her nose and jaw were marred and caved in, causing a bit of hollow patch where her cheek should have been, the skin stretched so thin he swore he caught sight of her teeth.

"Hello," Draco answered, and then shoved a very large piece of pancake in his mouth before he could utter any other word. Madame Hirsch had seated beside him, chattering along to the thin man about the day before and how they had met. The blonde was secretly relieved, as he wasn't sure he could carry on a conversation when a very familiar pair of bright green eyes spied his own directly across the room.

"Oh, Harry!"

Draco pasted on his very best charming smile and cut the woman off—"Can you excuse me for a moment, I, er, have to use the loo."

Madame Hirsch, distracted by what he supposed was the godliness of Potter, shifted her gaze back to his own, and then smiled her typical, unsettling smile. "Of course! It's at the end of the hall, dear, on your right. Can you tell Harry to come meet us here? He's right there in the doorway."

"Of course." Draco said, feeling like his face was about to split in two.

Harry's emerald stare never left his own face as Draco walked across the room, inwardly praying to Merlin he could reach the bastard before he went and screwed everything up. He stared at him hard for a moment, when he reached the doorway, and then realized how odd it looked, so then smiled.

The olive-skinned man looked surprised for a moment, blinking at him in his typical Gryffindor stupidity, and then seemed to remember _who _was in front of him when putting his hand on the blonde's shoulder and jerking him past, into the safety of the secluded doorway.

"Malfoy," he growled, no doubt about to unleash a barrel of empty threats upon him, except a hairy blur thudded against his enemy's chest and sent him flying to the floor.

Albus stood, wagging his tail and entire rump in his uncontained excitement, licking whatever patch of ivory skin he could get at as Malfoy attempted to shove the dog off. Harry sighed, and grabbed his collar, pulling him away long enough for the slender male to get up as he griped about germs.

"You really don't know how to control your dog at all, do you? Figures, you were abysmal at controlling that hippogriff as well, if I remember correctly."

Harry gritted his teeth and then decided to let the comment go. "You can't be here, Malfoy. I know what you do, what you did, and you have _no place here. _Do you understand me?"

Grey eyes narrowed when meeting the brunette's own, the telltale Malfoy sneer snaking its way from that stare into the smooth skin below.

"You don't own this place, Potter, you can't tell me what to do," Malfoy snapped, ignoring Albus's whimpering cry for his attention.

"What_ are_ you doing here, anyway? I find it highly unlikely you're here to extend services to those in need. You always were a selfish git."

Before the blonde could make his own scathing remark, Madame Hirsch suddenly appeared. "Oh, Harry! I see you've met Mr. Corvus. Oh, I bet you two just hit it off right away, didn't you?"

The sheer amount of disbelief on Potter's face was enough for Malfoy to smirk smugly back at him.

"T-This…_this…_is…wha—have you _hired _him? _Actually _hired _him?" _

Madame Hirsch seemed not to notice his appalled expression. "Oh, I'm glad you think we should hire him, Harry. Oh, look, even Albus agrees! Well, Mr. Corvus, that settles it, then, I suppose we should get your forms in order? I hope you don't mind waiting, I've got to pop out for a bit."

"_Madame Hirsch!" _hissed Harry, "you and I need to talk. In private."

The woman waved him away. "I can't right now, Harry. Didn't you remember that I have a board meeting this morning? I really ought to leave. Why don't you take Draco with you to class? I'm sure it'd be nice to have someone show him around."

The door slammed shut.

Harry glowered silently, glaring at the chuckling blonde beside him. In the silence, the pieces suddenly clicked in his head.

"Wait, Malfoy…" Harry looked up, taking in the whole picture of the Draco Malfoy in front of him, from the mussed clothes to the circles around his silver eyes, and frowned. "You came here…for a _job? _Not just a job, but as a _janitor? _What are you up to?"

"You really need to get your head checked, Potter," Malfoy snapped, "not everyone is out to get you, and nor am I. You don't matter, Scarhead. We're not at Hogwarts anymore."

Harry stayed quiet for a moment. "So… the rumors, then. You're really…on your own?"

Malfoy swallowed hard, and his face scrunched up with embarrassment and anger. "Look, Potter. I'm not here to _do _anything except what I need to. So let's agree to stay out of each other's way and life will be bloody peachy."

The door slammed for a second time, and this time, Harry was all alone, holding onto Albus's collar as he struggled to go after the blonde.

Now he really _was _looking forward to getting off work.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_I know this is really late. I'm sorry. _

_I've been having some problems with my living arrangement (well, really with my parents) so it's hard for me to be able to keep up with my stories, at least at a fluid pace. I do plan to finish them, but you may have to be a bit patient for the next 6 weeks until I get a place of my own._

_I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and as always, thank you for reading _

_-B._


	6. Chapter 6

It's been a year, so the original writing style this was in was hard to follow. Hopefully the jump isn't too noticeable, but I figured a fair warning was in order.

And yes, I do intend to finish this.

**::16::**

Hermione stared at Harry as he rushed inside the small café, frowning. He was breathing heavily and had to take a moment before saying anything.

What Harry had intended to say was, "Hello, Hermione. It's good to see you! I've found Albus. Oh, and funny story—Malfoy's come by for a job."

What he actually said was, "Malfoy's showed up in the centre!"

Ron, who was busying himself with munching on the appetizer, promptly choked.

Hermione rolled her eyes as he beat his fist on his chest a few times, hacking whatever piece had gotten lodged in his throat. "Way to be sympathetic, Herm," Ron wheezed, and then looked at Harry. "The Ferret's there? He actually showed his face _there? _Please tell me you hexed him all the way to whatever little hole he's hiding out in,"

Ron, working as an Auror, knew the youngest Malfoy couldn't be tied to any of the crimes the ministry was working on, but his namesake was still ruined, and the rumours of him being on his own, he thought, was still a mercy he did not deserve.

"Ron," Hermione scolded, "Neither of you are ten anymore. Give him a break. Everyone's been affected by the war, you know,"

Harry sighed. "Sorry, Herm, but Ron's right. The bastard doesn't deserve to show his face there. Half those kids are missing a family, and his family was part of the cause!"

"And yet no one can tie him directly to what Lucius did. He was fifteen, Harry. He was no more ready for the role he'd been forced to take any more than you were,"

Ron scoffed. The appetizer seemed bland to him. "How can you sympathise with the git? Your parents are gone because of him too!"

"Ron…" Harry tried to warn, but it was too late. Hermione's subject of her parents was still tender, and the ginger-haired man had brazenly barreled straight into it.

"Well, if that's how you feel," Hermione sniped, standing up. She paused, looked at Harry, and said, "It is good to see you, Harry. I do hope you won't listen to _him _about what to do regarding this,"

"Herm…" She ignored Ron's attempt to apologise and curtly said she wished him a good night. She turned on her heel and left, leaving everyone else looking at the two men at the table.

"Up for a drink?" Harry suggested lightly.

"Yeah," Ron said glumly.

When the butterbeer had arrived—Ron nursed it, saying he'd remembered the days when the three of them would get them together—he said, "Well, I think Herm wanted to tell you, but we're getting married. At least, I think we are,"

Harry smiled. "That's great, Ron. And you know Herm, she'll come around. Apologise and bring her one of those truffles she likes so much,"

Ron stared at him then shrugged. "She's been eating a lot of them lately. I don't really know what's going on with her. She's moody all the time,"

The darker-haired man sighed. "Mate, have you talked about…you know. Has she had her monthly…thing…yet?"

Ron turned crimson. "No." Then he turned pale. "No, you can't mean…"

"Might want to go talk to her, Ron."

He simply groaned in response.

**::17::**

Harry hadn't noticed Malfoy around during his shift, but he'd been too distracted _thinking _about the git to notice.

Malfoy had decided that since his archenemy was not going to give him the time of day, he'd find his own way around. It really was a huge property. The building blocked most of the land out the back. London didn't typically have such spacious properties. Nor were they typically in the city. Malfoy knew that there was likely magic involved, giving more space than there was.

"Potter could probably afford it, with him and his bloody fanclub," Malfoy muttered bitterly.

The land was primarily a playspace for the children—there was a quidditch field and some play equipment, though he did spy a few places where he thought emergency portkeys may have been located. At the back of the Quidditch field, there was a shed, likely storing the brooms and equipment for the field.

He hadn't flown for a while. Draco looked around. It really was understaffed, no one was watching him. Perhaps he could give it a try.

Loping down to the shed, which was actually much larger and probably housed more than just brooms, Draco paused. Locked. He frowned, nearly deterred, until he saw that there was a window on the side.

"Odd," he murmured, and then stood on his toes to peer through. Splaying his fingers against the glass to keep his balance, he tried to find something distinguishable in the shadows.

The window gave a loud croak of protest and propelled backwards, leaving Draco holding onto the edge to recover from his surprise. After one final look around, he hoisted himself up, his slender frame slipping easily through.

Draco smirked to himself. Out of habit, he fished his wand out of his pocket inseam and whispered, _"Lumos,"_

Nothing happened. The wand was still, sadly, simply a stick to him. "Of all the bloody people in the world to lose magic, it had to be me," Draco muttered, the last word ending on a whinge. He returned his wand and took the small rectangular item out of his opposite pocket instead.

The lighter hissed, and the shadows burst back.

It wasn't a broom closet it was…"A library?" Draco muttered, "Why would they possibly need to keep another library out here?"

"Ow!" The flame had flickered toward his thumb. He scowled, and lit it again.

He approached one of the rows of books, intending to find its title. Instead, he saw that each book within eyeshot was bare of a title.

Clumsily, he picked one out, wincing when the flame had inched too close again, and dropped the lighter, leaving him in the dark. The blonde moved closer to the window, where it was light enough for him to look at the pages.

Blank.

Draco felt around, hastily put the book back, and retrieved another one at random.

"Still blank? Why would _anyone _keep a secret pile of blank books?" Draco muttered. He flipped a page, slicing his finger. Blood seeped into the pages. "Shit," he muttered, putting the injured finger in his mouth.

"_Hello, Draco Malfoy."_

It was written in great florish, with emphasis on the ends of words. Like one had been pressing too harshly into the paper as it was being written.

"What?" The blonde nearly dropped it, but caught himself.

"_Each one of us has a specific person, Draco Malfoy. You are the specific individual in which Volume XXXIII, Book 6, was intended for."_

"Who is this? This is…someone's messing with me,"

"_Very well. If you choose to delve further into these pages, Draco Malfoy, you will find the answers you seek."_

"Answers? Like why I can't do magic?" Draco faintly realized that having a conversation with a book was not the greatest sign of mental lucidity.

"_The answer for that comes within. Have you any other answers you seek?"_

"Bloody hell, it is a joke," Draco sighed, "Least it could do is tell me where I'd get accommodation for _free, _but, no, of course—"

"_Accommodation, Draco Malfoy, can be arranged. Please wait approximately 0.003487 milliseconds before proceeding."_

He didn't even have to take another breath.

"_Accomodation I available: three steps right, two steps forward._

_Accomodation II available: 2 metres right_

_Accomodation III available: 2.3 km"_

"There's one here?"

"_Please choose a destination, Draco Malfoy."_

"Er, the first, accommodation one,"

"_Very well, Draco Malfoy. Please proceed three steps right,"_

He took two steps, and new print appeared, seeping into the pages like the blood that still lingered.

"_In approximately one step, take two steps forward,"_

He did so mutely. In front of him were four figurines—a lion, a snake, a raven, and a badger.

"_Turn the symbol of your house two strokes counterclockwise"_

His hand was shaking, and the lion should have wobbled, but he found they were firmly in place. The only one of the four that was free for him to move was the snake.

The floor beneath him rumbled, and he was certain that he'd be found in a moment, but a staircase descending into the ground revealed itself as one of the bookshelves shifted.

Hesitantly, he took one step down, tested it with his foot, and continued. The black surrounded him, and the light the window above only showed him where his exit would be found.

His body made contact with a wall, and in that instant lights flooded around him.

"_Oh, sweet Merlin," _

**::18::**

Harry sleepily pushed the key into his doorknob, forgetting that he could have simply used his wand, and dragged himself into the kitchen, where a cup of tea was waiting for him, long gone cold since he had not reset his arrival time.

He twisted his hand, and the lights shut off. Getting to the couch was his only goal, and that effort seemed difficult enough.

"Sorry to intrude, Harry,"

He jumped, yelping, "Merlin, can't you knock?"

"Ron told you about the engagement?"

"Yeah, Herm, he did. Look, I've got to be at work in a few hours, and—"

"Harry?" Hermione's face looked grave, even through firecall, and he stopped cold.

"What is it? Did he get home okay?"

"Yes, he's here, it's fine. Look, can you just—"

In a crack, Harry appeared in the living room of Hermione's flat, which was predictably surrounded by bookcases.

"I'm here, what is it?"

The woman's face crumpled up at the sight of him. "You shouldn't have apparated drunk, you…you…" That was all she managed to get out before leaning into him, bursting into tears. Harry rubbed her back.

Ron was sitting beside her, quiet for a moment. "She lost the baby,"

Between wretched sobs Hermione sputtered out, "It was my fault,"

Harry froze. He led the woman to the seat closest to Ron. "I'm _sure _it wasn't your fault, Hermione," he said, trying to reassure her.

"She thinks because we were thinking of adopting, she...might have had second thoughts about a baby, and that's why…"

Harry faced his two friends. "Both of you, listen to me," he said sternly, trying to keep the edge out of his voice, "You had nothing to do with that, and you know it. Hermione, you would have loved that baby no matter what, you know it. Ron would have too. You did _nothing _wrong,"

Hermione looked at him, eyes watery. "I wish I could believe you, Harry."


	7. Chapter 7

**::19::**

Draco found himself on the large bed without realizing it. He rubbed his face into the duvet, paused, and looked at the sheets. "The same ones I had at the manor!" he squealed, delighted, "It's a real bed, with real sheets and the _softest _duvet and—" He stopped, spying the door in the corner, and leapt to his feet.

"There's a loo! With a bath and—are those actually soaps? Real, handcrafted soaps? And shampoo, real shampoo with truffle oil and Bulgarian Evening Primrose! And even—oh, _Merlin, _I look _awful._"

He ran the bath, generously putting bath salts in whilst he waited. He held half the container in his hand, "Oh, this is silly!" Draco murmered to himself, giddy, and dumped the rest in. He decided the splash sounded especially cheerful.

After a long bath and fifteen minutes spent shampooing his silvery locks, Draco sighed in contentment. "I want to live here forever."

His stomach rumbled. "Oh, there has to be food here!" He sang to himself, rinsing his hair. A robe hung on one hook, with the label _D. Malfoy. _He slipped it on, noticed that it fit just so, and smiled again.

Skipping to the common room, where the bed was located, Draco saw two things: the book was still on the floor, where he had abandoned it in his joy, and beside it was a cabinet.

"Book, I apologise for leaving you there! I was just so excited!"

He put the book on the bed, opening the cabinet.

"Healing potions? Well, I suppose it's always well and good to be prepared," He said, dismissing his confusion, and rifled further. There were two drawers beneath the shelf that housed the potions.

"Oh, I bet these will be the beautiful new clothes I am absolutely—" Draco stopped short. In the first drawer, one set of robes neatly sat alongside a very familiar mask.

Hastily, he jumped to the bed, tearing the book open, shouting, "The war is over! Do you hear me? It's over! Get rid of those, get rid of them—"

"_You are unhappy with your accommodation, Draco Malfoy?_

_Please choose from the following options:_

_Accomodation II available: 2 metres right_

_Accomodation III available: 2.3 km_

_Please exit the flat in two minutes."_

Draco yelped, running to the pile of clothes he'd hastily left on the floor, and ran as fast as his feet could carry him.

He sighed in relief as rumbling followed, the bookshelf returning to hide its secret. He noticed he still had the robe on, and ripped it off as fast as he could, throwing it down the stairs. Relief overtook him again, and he wearily redressed in the worn and dirty clothes he'd entered in.

"I don't want to see _you _again," Draco spat, shoving the book in the gap on a shelf. When he drew his hand away, he realized the spine was no longer bare. In heavy gothic letters _D. Malfoy _was there.

"Bugger," the blonde yelped, panicking, looking to find a way to be rid of it. He spied the lighter on the floor. "Yes, yes, that'll do it,"

He held the some pages of the book in fistfuls, watching the flame flicker. It wouldn't catch. The pages stayed pristine.

There was no way he could leave it behind. He would just have to take it with him.

He tumbled headfirst into the grass below. Groaning, he sat up, picking a spider from his hair. "So much for cleanliness,"

Tucking the book firmly against him, he walked fast, the only plan in his mind to retrieve his belongings he'd stashed across the street. He could at least hide the book, wrap it in his jacket, try to forget about it.

He was so lost in his own mind that by time he cleared the field and crossed the street, a bus narrowly missed him. Startled, Draco leapt to the bush where he had kept his belongings and found nothing.

"I know I left them right here," he muttered, trying not to panic. He looked around, checked the spot again, and it wasn't there.

"Mr. Corvus?"

Draco continued searching.

Something tapped him on the shoulder. Draco whipped around, greeted by the scarred face of Phoebe. He barely managed to stifle a gasp.

"This wouldn't happen to be yours, would it?" Part of her face smiled, but Draco was too distracted by the part that stayed immobile. She was holding his bag in one hand.

"Erm, yes, I think so, I must have dropped it or—" He gingerly took it from her, slipping the book inside. She did not ask about it.

She half-smiled again. Draco looked at her. How could someone with such an unfortunate…deformity be so kind?

"You know, Mr. Corvus, I never did get your first name," she murmured, eyeing him.

"S-Scorpious." Draco coughed out.

Phoebe tilted her head up, looking ase though she was holding back a laugh.

"Yes, it's…my parents were…inventive."

The woman did let out a laugh then, and then she looked at him seriously.

"I…I come here early, you know, to help out, and I saw that…"

Draco froze.

"Forgive me for being brash, Scorpious, but…if you need a place to stay, I can always offer my couch. It's not much, but…"

"You barely know me," Draco said, unable to stop himself.

Phoebe tilted her head again, and smiled that same smile. "I can see auras. Yours shows you to be trustworthy...and cautious."

Trustworthy. Right. Draco ignored the sarcastic echo in his head and said, "I can't really pay for anything, I'd just—"

"Can you make tea?" Phoebe interjected.

He'd learned how. "Yes, I can make tea." He answered, the tone one of confusion.

"Then I may ask, Scorpious, for you to please prepare tea for me in the evenings. In return you shall have a place to sleep."

He was about to argue it more, but even he knew when to give in. "I…er, I really appreciate it." Despite her easy smile, Draco still felt hesitant.

**::20::**

It was a small flat. The couch was against the wall parallel to the kitchen. Phoebe pointed to the doorway across from the main entrance. "That's my bedroom, and then past it in the corner is the restroom, if you need to use it."

Draco shifted his bag to his other hand, scooting over to fit in the nearest corner as she spoke. A cat lazily meowed, crawling under the couch to circle around Phoebe's legs.

"Oh, that's Omen. Don't worry about him, he's sweet."

"Omen?" Draco repeated warily.

"Oh, you know, the silly myth muggles have about how black cats bring bad luck? I thought it a fitting name." Phoebe put her purse on the table, going to the kitchen.

"I can't say I've heard of it before, no."

Phoebe took a tin of what looked to be cat food out of the refrigerator. Draco remembered the first time he attempted to use magic whilst cooking—the latter something he had never really done up until that point. It hadn't gone well, to say the least, so he had stuck to things easily made—sandwiches, tinned fruits. Things that required the least amount of work whatsoever.

"I'm afraid I've only got the ingredients for toast at the moment. I hope you like strawberry jam," Phoebe said apologetically, after setting down the cat food on the floor.

Draco was so very poor at being a guest. "I..that sounds lovely, thank you."

As she busied herself, Draco found himself looking at the walls. Bare, not a picture in sight. Perhaps she was on her own as well.

Three slices of toast sat on the table, a knife already applying the jam for him. He picked up the first and was too distracted by actual sustenance to show appreciation first, but after the first bite was over and done with, he looked up.

"Pansy?"

"Really, Draco, you should have considered polyjuice or _something _before going for a job,"

Draco scoffed, taking another bite of his toast. "Like I had an option? What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I'm only around for a bit. The trials are coming up soon, and I'm a witness. It's part of a deal." Pansy looked…different. Much less like the spoiled, whiny girl she had been and more like a stranger. "I needed protection and a place to go, so I have a potion I need to take any time I go out."

"And where did you get it?"

Pansy looked at him. "The Ministry will protect all the evidence it has, Draco." She turned around, looking behind her. "That reminds me…you can come out now,"

A lanky man with reddish-blonde hair stared at her huffily. "Couldn't start a bit sooner for the introductions?"

"Who is that?" Draco asked flatly.

"This is Rupert. Rupert, Draco."

The man eyed him. "I'm her…"

"Security," Pansy finished abruptly, handing him a piece of toast. "Anyway, Draco, you should consider coming forward too. I'm surprised you haven't been maimed or killed yet, walking around here in broad daylight," She shrugged off her jacket and a tattoo caught his eye.

"I never took the Mark," Draco said quietly.

Pansy looked surprised for a moment. "Then I'm still surprised you're alive. I was convinced You-Know-Who would have killed anyone who denied it."

"I think he needed…entertainment," The blonde supplied, with a bitter smile.

"What happened after? If you hadn't taken the Mark, hadn't joined the Deatheaters, where did you go? I always just thought you were either dead or had been in a different group,"

"Hid, mostly. My mother, she…" Draco trailed off, and then that was all.

"You or her?" Pansy asked gently, though she already knew. She knew that part of the tale.

The blonde boy pushed around at the food on his plate. He cleared his throat. "Yeah…me or her. I don't know why he didn't kill me after…or why none of the others hadn't tried."

Pansy looked at Rupert, who gave her a half-shrug.

"That night…you remember it?"

Silver eyes caught her own dark ones and he laughed, but it came out broken. "I dream about it, Parkinson."

"_She helped end the war, Draco." _Pansy whispered, _"But she asked that they rescue you first."_

It made sense now. New recruits, so late after the season. His mother had brought them in. Voldemort had recently taken a great loss to his pawns and needed more. That loss was organized by his mother. Narcissa.

Why so many hated him.

And when he roared that Lucius choose…Oh, even Lucius had known.

The new recruits that had been sent to collect him—the ones he was sure that were going to kill him anyway, had hidden him in the old Master bedroom. It had remained untouched, but no one had ever come that far into the manor. It was too risky to remove him entirely, but Voldemort didn't miss him because the war had taken a turn.

It was over shortly after. No more than two or three weeks.

He never did see his father. All he remembered that he was portkeyed shortly before the rest of the Ministry swarmed the place, trying to detain as many working for Voldemort as they could. It was mostly fodder, but one of the more valuable members—Goyle's father, was captured.

And that was it. He had been left without any word, explanation. Just a key and, "The war's over. Your lease expires next month."

**::21::**

Harry was running on empty. He arrived to the Centre without his usual cheer. Albus seemed not to notice the change in his demeanor.

Madame Hirsch furrowed her brows at him. "Harry, you look—"

"I'm fine, thank you. Class will resume as planned."

It was a primary class, most were too young to start any of the things First Years focused on. In his classes, they focused on the basics—reading skills, comprehension, and similar things. Harry liked it. It gave him a sense of normalcy that he really appreciated.

When he entered his classroom and began his preparations—the children were still at breakfast—he spotted a familiar head of silvery-blonde hair.

Out in the hallway, Harry heard Madame Hirsch greet him with her syrupy tone.

"Technically, your shift doesn't start for a few hours, Mr. Corvus,"

"Pa—Phoebe volunteered to help show me around. The mops…and whatever else may be involved,"

Harry could just imagine him trying to keep the sneer off his face. How odd, though, that Phoebe would randomly volunteer for such a thing. She normally kept to herself, and barely spoke to Harry. She seemed painfully shy.

Phoebe passed his doorway, chattering like she and Malfoy were pals already. "That's one of the classrooms, I think Po—Harry usually teaches in it,"

He rolled his eyes. Anyone female here seemed likely to fall in love with Malfoy.

Two of the five day-to-day permanent staff liked him already. The centre mostly ran on volunteers and whoever they could take on—most people were temporary, but so far they were doing okay. It had been shaky at times, but it was okay.

A bark echoed through the hallway. "Albus likes you,"

…And Albus.

He was outnumbered. Malfoy was going to stay, after all.

"Great," Harry muttered under his breath.


	8. Chapter 8

**::22::**

"Look, Draco," Pansy said seriously, as she watched him mop a floor, "I can pull some strings and get you hired on as something more permanent, but you're going to have to do better than that." His idea of mopping was sloshing more water around.

"Why can't we use magic?" he whined.

Pansy ignored him, "You want my help or not?"

Draco shot her a sarcastic look.

"Then listen to me. I've only got an hour to show you where everything is, but everything is really very basic. Stick with it for now, you're going to have to treat it like the only way you can build a reputation anywhere."

"It is." The blonde answered flatly. The plastic apron was too big for him, so they had to tie it around twice.

"Hopefully soon I can find an in for them to see how good you are with kids," Pansy—in her Phoebe disguise—leant down to show him how to squeegee the water out of the mop, then pointed for him to do it.

Draco's eyes bulged. "Pansy, when have you ever seen me with kids?" He ignored her directive.

She laughed. "Don't try to lie to me, your mother told me all the stories. Kids love you. Now, do what I just showed you."

Water splashed in his eye. He groaned.

"Okay, now I have to show you the cupboards where everything's kept. Most rooms don't have any cleaning agents in them, but there's a cart you can use—"

"Can I ride in it?" Draco asked disinterestedly.

"No. You have to push it. Now, come on. I'll show you where the cupboard is." Pansy answered smoothly, linking arms with his.

**::23::**

Harry was the sort to bring a sack lunch to the centre. He didn't care much for spending it out in the dining hall. It reminded him too much of Hogwarts.

They were fortunate enough that the they had House Elves to help with the meals, but had to restrict their duties because even magical creatures could cause some chaos, and not always with the children. Hermione hadn't ever really given up on her welfare spiel, and managed to pass some general rules (Harry secretly thought help came begrudgingly upon Ron's part) on how much House Elves could work a day.

And there was the incident with the overflowing toilet after a House Elf had tried to fix it. Some children had nightmares after.

It was unfortunate circumstances such as these that brought the smarmy git Malfoy back into his life—but admittedly he wanted to see his downfall. Right now, though, Phoebe and Madame Hirsch were talking his ear off, and he was just smiling charmingly through it all. 

Oh, how it made his blood boil!

He whirled around, returning back to his usual classroom, and ate alone. That wasn't new for him, so it wasn't that he felt jealousy.

It was just…

Why did _Malfoy _of all people get everything so easy?

**::24::**

Malfoy watched the two women talk over each other. Pansy liked getting Madame Hirsch worked up, and pretending that she had a thing for Draco made her all sorts of…animated. He smiled, nodded, and said the proper things at the proper times, but truthfully, he wanted to be left alone.

The information she had given him the night prior was taking its toll. Guilt, grief, and anger were all that he felt, but having to put on a face was what he needed to do.

In the corner of his eye he saw Harry looking at him. Rageful. Bitter. Draco's anger started to stir. What right had Potter have to judge him? He knew nothing. Simply assumed. A funny little thought crossed his mind. What if the person had been stalking him was actually Harry? He'd acted surprised when he saw him again, but what a twist that would be!

Egocentric Potter probably thought himself better than Draco. Always treated as the savior, he probably had one the size of the whole world by now. And immediately he'd pigeonholed Draco as his exact opposite. Even if he had done cruel things in his younger years, the blonde didn't consider himself the complete opposite of Potter. Voldemort was. He cared for nothing and no one, only for the reign of power and fear that he thirsted for.

Draco? Draco had cared for others. Even if he thought Muggles and half-bloods were less than noble, he felt himself changing. Growing into something more than just his father's carbon copy. He was unsure that he liked it, because he had never experienced such a thing.

But things had changed drastically. As a result the Slytherin knew he needed to adapt. He was determined to not lose his roots, his family background—that was his foundation.

Perhaps it was an illusion. Maybe he wasn't changing at all, perhaps he was just the same Draco that spat out vicious remarks, who acted smug and above others. Maybe the adaptation would be temporary.

"Erm, Dra—Mr. Corvus," Pansy said, "did you hear what we said?"

Draco blinked. He hadn't at all. "I'm sorry, I think I need to be excused, my shift should be starting soon,"

"Oh, it's your first day! You need to get acclimated, meet the others!" Madame Hirsch responded, batting her eyelashes.

"That is kind of you, Madame," he paused, "but perhaps I can arrive a few hours early, so I can meet everyone then,"

The woman pursed her lips, pondering his answer, "I do think that is a good idea! Don't overwork yourself, dear, we wouldn't want to run you ragged."

Draco gave a nod, one that indicated a farewell. Madame smiled.

As he was walking back, he heard her say, "He is such a charming young man! Hardworking too. I think we'll be grateful for him."

Pansy simply nodded. Sometimes it was best to leave such a thing alone, even if she though Madame was a bit mistaken. Hardworking wasn't exactly a skill Draco had fully acquired yet, but she had faith that he would.

Draco leaned against the doorway, watching Potter look through his lesson plans as he ate. Albus bounded down the hall, barking. The animal jumped up, trying to lick his face. Draco pushed him away, and allowed him to nuzzle his hand.

Harry looked up, startled by the bark. His expression turned sour when seeing Draco. "What are you here for? To rub in my face that you won?"

The blonde smirked, shaking his head. He came closer, taking one of the chairs and sat on it backwards. "You really don't get it, do you, Potter? We've all changed, and whilst I have no desire to have a heart-to-heart with you, but I really do not want you to be challenging my chance for a job here. If you do, Potter, in any way, I'll be sure to send you a hex before the door slams in my face,"

The darker-haired boy laughed dryly, his eyes reflecting bitterness and irritation. "Threats, Draco? Really? And you say we're not in Hogwarts anymore,"

"Look, I will fight for you to leave if I have any inkling that you're not helping with things here. But let's make a deal. You try to stay out of my way, like you suggested earlier—you're certainly not acting like it now—and I will do the same. But don't think for a _second_ that I'll do you any favours."

Draco narrowed his eyes and sneered. "Like I'd take any favours for you, Potter." _That's the Malfoy I know, _Harry thought.

Harry pointed at the doorway. "Exit is that way."

Draco sneered again. "Thank you for the obvious, Scarhead. I know you need help with such things but I do not."

Harry ignored him, and Draco rose to his feet, and Albus followed.


	9. Chapter 9

**::25::**

Draco's shift started at one in the afternoon, right after lunch was over for the residents of the centre. His first job was to wipe the tables down, after which he was due to sweep the crumbs off the floor.

It was simple enough, but the dining hall was huge. Draco wondered how he was possibly supposed to finish that alongside the rest of cleaning he had to do before and after lights out. He sighed, looked around warily, and lifted the broom, which had such little effect in a room this size.

Pansy leaned in, and furrowed her brow. "Why are you still in here if the tables are done?"

The blonde paused his furtive sweeping and stared at her blankly. "Aren't I supposed to clean that up as well?"

"Oh, I forgot to explain the shifts to you," she groaned, "Look, there's certain shifts. Your job is to manage the tables after meals and to look after the classrooms and two restrooms to the front. We have other people who come in to take care of the other things. They have groups of two to three, taking on the bigger jobs like sweeping this place, dusting. The rest have sectioned off to the bedrooms upstairs, the loos down the south."

"And why, again," Draco muttered, "can we not use magic? You'd have less budget issues and more efficient methods of running this place otherwise!"

"Ever hear of magical aversion, Draco?" The woman asked, taking his silence as an answer that he did not, "Not even the healers can explain it, Draco, but these kids? They can't handle magic. Whether they see it or not, there's rashes, fevers, hallucinations. Some don't get affected as much, others do."

The blonde decided this was not a sufficient answer. "You have House Elves. Portkeys. Brooms and a Quidditch field, for Merlin's sake! Not to mention all sorts of charms and wards on this place, so that makes no sense at all,"

Pansy pursed her lips, nodding. "You're right. They built this place with those things in mind, and included everything you listed."

Draco sighed, crossing his arm with an irritated expression.

"And then we had to remove everything. The brooms, the portkeys, the charms. The House Elves aren't allowed to use magic, everything is done the muggle-way. The fact that they're magical creatures isn't an issue, as long as they don't use their powers."

"Is it isolated?" The blonde asked.

"No, there's been some reports nearby, even by muggles, of strange reactions. I'm not certain on how _that _works, but as of yet investigations have turned up nothing. They're threatening to tear this place down unless we can prove it's not anything to do with the centre specifically."

Things were whirling in his head, a small clue. "What about the place out back? The shed?"

Pansy looked at him strangely. "What about it? There's not much in it, just some books. Nothing magical about them has been detected, but we hadn't the room for them so they're stored out there. Books wouldn't explain much anyway, Draco. The theory is that there's a curse. Where and on what or whom has yet to be explained. There's barely a sliver of magic registering in this place," Pansy sighed, "But that's apparently not enough proof for The Ministry wanting to shut this place down."

"Why not move it, then?"

Pansy shook her head. "You think we haven't tried? The place won't budge. We have no funding for another building because there's talk of a risk that it'll happen again."

Draco was suspicious. But he couldn't risk telling Pansy about the book just yet. Not until he'd found some evidence of his own that the books were involved.

**::26::**

Harry was exhausted. He wanted to go straight home after lights out, but it was his night to tutor, and that meant another four hours of work. He forced himself through it, knowing that his usual zeal and patience had run out.

An older boy, no more than sixteen, was frowning over a History of Magic assignment. He was one of the people preparing for the OWLs. There was much less rigor surrounding them now—exams were easier to prepare for since there was no set date for taking them—proctored exams were offered three or four times a year.

Harry had left for a short break after lights out—to drop off Albus and give him his supper—before returning to work. He hated leaving him alone, the dog tended to get anxious without company, but he had no choice. Albus was distracting during tutoring lessons—he tended to be less behaved when he couldn't be involved in Harry's classroom.

Reading out loud, for example, was one of Harry's adjustments. The children who struggled most with pronunciation and reading tended to make the strongest improvements to reading to Albus rather than a class.

Naturally the dog didn't stay with him all day—he freely wandered the manor and knew how to get out in the backyard when he needed to.

Regardless, Albus was still one of the best things for the children there.

"Okay, Beatrice, how's the potions work going?" The dark-haired wizard asked a short blonde girl, hair in pigtails, skin smattered with freckles and eyes like Snape's. It was an interesting contrast. She was stirring something green in her cauldron. She was a First Year.

"Good, I think," she frowned and looked at her manual again, "Wait, I think it's supposed to be purple…"

Harry took a look. "Counterclockwise. Go left instead of right. It's okay," he reassured her, "I wasn't too good at potions myself,"

She smiled a wide smile, blushing slightly. Harry suspected she had a bit of a crush on him. He nodded at her, and then went to the boy at the next table, who had a Runes assignment.

A clattering sound echoed in the hall. Harry poked his head out of the doorway, curious. There was Malfoy, wrapped in an apron, bringing the cart into one of the classrooms that had recently finished up the final tutoring session for the night.

Harry grinned. He never thought he'd see the day Malfoy would be unable to order others around.

**::27::**

If there was one thing Draco abhorred about his current job, it was the way the smell of chemicals and dirt clung to him like magnets. He really wanted to drop everything and take a shower forever.

The classrooms, at least, were the easiest to maintain. There was typically less dirt that clung to surfaces—a bit of sweeping and light scrubbing on the surfaces was all that needed to be done. He had, however, left the worse for last—the restrooms. He still shuddered at the thought.

The cart rattled loudly as he pulled it along, pausing at the first restroom, which was one floor up, near the bedrooms. Water sloshed as he took each step, but he managed to not spill any.

The restroom was designed with toilet stalls as well as shower stalls, which were opposite the toilets. By the door were the sinks—one higher, and one lower, to accommodate the younger kids.

Flies buzzed at the light above, and Draco scowled.

The first thing to do was clean the toilets. With bright yellow rubber gloves on that reached his elbows, Draco tried to stay as far away as he possibly could whilst shaking some of the powered cleanser in.

His nose wrinkled further when he had to crouch down and scrub with the toilet brush. He scrubbed a bit too close in the front and promptly felt a spray of water hit his face. He yelped, wiping frantically at his face with his sleeves, but realized he was rubbing it on the gloves instead, which had been covered further with the water in the toilets. He groaned, barely suppressing the urge to throw a temper-tantrum.

The rest of the job was done as quickly as possible. Draco didn't care anymore at that point—details were useless to him. He did a quick mop, sprayed some cleanser on the bottom of the showers, and then simply rinsed it away.

Then he sighed with relief, glad that his day was over.

Until he realized that there was a second restroom to be dealt with.

"Bugger it all," he muttered crossly, going across the hall to the girls' side. Much like his former attempt, Draco did as little as possible before calling the job done. He brought all the supplies back down after dumping the dirty water down the drain, unwrapped his apron and removed his gloves, putting them in the bin labeled DIRTY.

He was sore and tired, dragging himself down the corridor. He still had to wait for the next bus before he could get to Pansy's and take a shower. The cold air hit his face and it was a small comfort, fresh air felt good compared to the stuffy rooms he'd been in all day.

Draco was on the day shift on Mondays, and on the night shift both Tuesday and Wednesday. Thursday and Friday he wasn't scheduled for anything, but on Saturdays he had another morning shift.

He wondered if he'd even get past the first week.


	10. Chapter 10

**::28::**

Harry had watched Malfoy leave, looking as tired and ragged as he felt. It was an odd sensation—he'd been sure that he'd get a smug enjoyment out of it, but instead he felt…surprised. Surprised that Malfoy had actually stuck through it all, something Harry was guessing wouldn't happen.

After the tutoring session ended, Harry packed up his things and began to head out when he realized—Draco had missed a room. His. The shift didn't match the end of his tutoring session that night, so it wasn't as if the blonde had skipped out on him.

He hesitated, looking at the mess Beatrice had left at her table. He wanted to ignore it, lock it, and have Malfoy be sent away for skimping off the job on his first day. Instead of pang of guilt hit him, and he sighed.

"No favors. Right."

He got out the cleansers from one of the cupboards and a rag, wiping down each desk and tidying up his own at the front.

It would do.

But it was only this once, he decided, as the lock clicked and he headed out to the lot where he kept his car. Technically, Harry didn't need one. But he loved driving, loved the feeling of the wind whipping through his hair. It was a bit like flying, something he rarely got to do now. So driving with the top down was the next best thing.

As he drove past, he realized Malfoy was at the bus stop. He frowned, staring at the road in front of him. That was odd, why didn't he just apparate?

Harry shrugged, deciding it was none of his concern and also did not care to spend the rest of his night thinking about Malfoy. It was bad enough that they had to see each other, thinking about him was simply overkill.

Albus barked joyfully when Harry arrived to let him in from the kennel he had outside his flat. He raced around the rooms, circling Harry haphazardly as the man made his way to his shower. As the hot water pattered upon him, soothing the tiredness he felt, his thoughts turned to Malfoy again.

Apparating inside the centre itself was not allowed, and whilst it initially caused some concern due to the odd occurrences of magic aversion, so far there hadn't been any effect on the residents by it.

Harry remembered that he still had Draco's wand, tucked away in a drawer. How he had come across it was a bit of a funny case—Ron technically had gotten ahold of it. Harry had partnered with him during the sweep of the Malfoy manor. The reason he even knew it was Draco's in the first place was because it had been tucked neatly into a case, with his initials on the cover—it was thin enough to fit in a robe pocket, and how it had gotten left behind was a mystery to Harry, but he ended up keeping it.

Why, he wasn't entirely sure. Perhaps initially it was a sort of pride thing—proof that his side truly had conquered Malfoy and his team of Deatheaters. Perhaps it was simply a memento. He'd never thought once about returning it; after all, he'd no clue where Draco was at all, and many figured he was in hiding.

But now, seeing Draco at that bus stop, looking worn and so very different from the malicious bully he once knew, Harry found himself thinking about it.

"This is silly, I shouldn't be wasting my time thinking about Malfoy," he murmured to himself, as he readied himself for a much needed sleep.

But his final thought before drifting off to sleep was, _Perhaps I should return it…_

**::29::**

Draco had managed to get through two weeks, however hellish and horrid he managed to find them. Additionally he had been so exhausted that the idea of delving into the mystery of the book he'd found had been forgotten—or rather, been avoiding.

The reason he remembered was because Sunday of that week, _his _day off, might he add, there was a fundraising event going on. There were also hopes of attracting some potential adopters as well.

Fundraising that was needed because of all the negative publicity affecting the centre recently. Draco was sure the books had something to do with it, but—and he admitted his selfishness—he simply wanted nothing to do with it nor the memories it would bring.

Pansy said that Draco had to attend. When he refused, Pansy simply said, "Would you rather be a janitor for the rest of your days?"

Draco scowled, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Good, then you'll come with me."

Draco had approximately three outfits. One was for sleeping, one was for work and all its lovely cleansing agents, and one suit he had managed to keep nearly pristine. It fit like a glove, accentuating the leanness of his frame, the sharp angles of his shoulders and jawline.

Even Pansy admitted that he looked good.

"Of course I do," Draco said smugly, "I'm a Malfoy,"

Pansy rolled her eyes and simply drank her potion. Nothing she could have worn would have helped distract from the mask of her face.

The fundraising event was due to start at noon, but some of the staff arrived early to help with the set-up, and of course, to mind the children.

It was a cloudy day, with some darker clouds in the distance possibly suggesting rain or a storm later.

"You're going to help watch the kids," Pansy said, as they crossed the street. People were setting up tables and a welcome desk in front of the building.

"Why would I do that?" Draco asked, wrinkling his nose like she had suggested he swim in the sewer.

"Because, my dear Draco, there are many people here that would recognize you," Pansy explained patiently, tilting Phoebe's head at him. It was interesting, the mask didn't faze him anymore. Perhaps because he knew it was simply Pansy hiding under there—and hiding from everyone, mask or not, seemed to be how she dealt with things.

"So why invite me at all!" he muttered, readjusting his jacket and smoothing his hair.

"You need to improve your reputation, Draco—both with the centre and with the wizarding community here. Of course there is the small problem of them referring to you by your true name because somehow you thought it wise to provide a fraudulent one." Pansy shook her head, "No matter, I'll keep an eye on it. _You _keep an eye on the children."

The blonde looked the gate open in the back, where the sounds of children rang through the air. "What am I supposed to do? Make them march in line? Recite poetry?" he asked, ignoring Phoebe-Pansy's irritated look.

"I'm sure you'll either find something, or they'll drag you to do something, so _go, now. _Before Potter gets here and I have to listen to both of your poor attempts at thinly-veiled insults," She left him before he could make another comment and Draco scowled, wondering why he had bothered with his best suit if all he was going to be was a _nanny _for the day.

When he entered the field, a woman approached him, one he had yet to meet. She looked relieved and said, "Oh, good, we were really in need of another supervisor. You can watch the primary kids over there—oh, they're getting fidgety," she paused, "try to see if you can get them to do something active. Tire 'em out, you know?"

No, Draco did certainly not know. When he was that age, fidgeting was something to be disciplined. Nor his mother or father ever suggested, "Draco, go play in a field," it was, "Draco, your lessons are starting soon, calm down,"

He walked over to the group of kids—ten in all, six boys and four girls. He guessed most of them to be no more than 8, but he never was good at estimating such things. It seemed to be more of a maternal skill.

One boy, with blonde curls and hazel eyes, frowned. "Who are you?"

Draco held off his sneer. "You can call me Mr. Corvus." He paused awkwardly, as the children simply stared at him, in a mixture of curiosity and cautiousness.

"Shall we, er, go around in a circle and introduce ourselves?" Draco wouldn't have minded if all he did was refer to each child by a number, but for once he decided he would take Pansy's advice.

The blonde child stared at him, still holding the scowl on his face. "Well, I suppose we'll just let you go first, then," he said, pointing at the heavyset girl in pigtails next to the child Draco had nicknamed The Brat.

Instead of sharing her name, however the girl looked pensive for a moment, looked at one of her counterparts, and then said, after a deep breath, "Why do you look like that?"

The blonde was taken aback, and the children moved closer to him, even the bratty blonde, waiting for his answer. "Look like what?"

"Y'know," a girl to his left chimed in, green-eyed with long hair and two missing teeth, "_old. _Only old people have silver hair!"

Such insolence! Draco raged, crimson blooming across his cheeks before he could help it. "I will have you know, little girl, that I am _not _old. Us Mal—my family ages well."

One of the quietest children, a boy with woeful eyes and a bowlcut haircut, looked at him, "Was it a curse?" his eyes opened wide, "Did someone make you look old?"

"I just said—"

The bratty blonde cut him off by stamping his foot huffily. "We don't like being lied to! Tell us the story!" The other nine children quickly agreed in unison, excited chatter overlapping each other.

Clearly the blonde was the leader. Draco would need to be certain to dethrone the little brat. "It's simply a family trait—my father passed it on to me,"

The children frowned. "That's not a story!"

He let out an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh, watching their expressions in the corner of his eye. "Well, I _suppose, _if you think you can stay still long enough for such a grand tale, I _may _be inclined to tell you one. But only if you behave," he baited.

"We can! We can!" The children scrambled to sit around him, fighting over who got to be closest. They eyed him with rapt attention.

"It all begins," he started, with a great flourish of his hands, "with a young boy, no older than you were! You see, this boy was an only child, and lived in a great manor with only his parents and the caretakers for company. There were family functions, where families of equal status came over to the manor for a grand party. Sometimes those families had other children, and the boy would spend time with them,"

Draco leaned in, with an obvious show that he was about to share a secret, "The other children were slow and spoilt, only caring to gorge on the sweets available to them. The boy didn't like them very much."

He paused to settle on the ground, cross-legged. They seemed less enthused than before, and Draco needed to think of a twist, fast. "So one day, he decided that he would need to go find another friend, a real friend. Even though his parents had told him to never, ever go off on his own through the forest around the manor, the boy decided that he was old enough to protect himself.

"So off he went, delving deeper and deeper into the dark, and soon he was tired and hungry, but the boy had yet to complete his mission, so he persevered. In the deepest part of the forest, there was a cave. And it was rumored that inside this cave, one could have their greatest wish fulfilled. However, there were dangerous things inside this cave, creatures that lived to protect its treasure."

"Like what?" One member of his audience asked, eyes wide.

"Well first," he said, straightening his back, "Erklings dwelled there. Erklings like to attract children, and the boy was lured closer to the caver, his curiosity growing. He followed the sounds of the creature, which silenced the moment the boy realized he was lost.

Knowing that going back could confuse him further, the boy decided to continue through the cave. It was eerily quiet, until he reached a small clearing. In the clearing was a beautiful pond, it looked welcoming and cool, especially to one who hadn't had anything to drink for a long while.

Excited, the boy scampered down to the pond for a drink, but as he came closer to the center of the clearing, his shoes wet from the water lapping at his feet, he realized the light had dimmed. There, in the center of the dark pond, small ripples emanated from the center, and the hungry eyes of a Kappa stared straight back at him."

Draco paused for dramatic effect. "Well, what happened next?" shouted the blonde boy, impatient.

"The boy had to think fast. Kappas like to feed on humans, you see, and since the creature had been living alone in a cave, it was probably very hungry. As the creature stirred closer, the boy saw that there was an exit in its hiding place. It was possibly the _only _exit, and the boy knew he needed to distract the creature long enough to get through the small opening."

The man paused his tale, prompting his audience, "Do any of you know how to deprive a Kappa of its energy? So it's too tired to go after its prey?"

Every child stayed silent, shaking their heads, with the exception of one—the quiet child, with the woeful eyes. He looked pensive and uncertain. Draco pointed at him. "You do, don't you?"

The boy looked hesitant. "Come on, Connor! Tell us! How do you do it?" the others said excitedly.

"Well," he said shyly, "the only way to do that is to trick it into bowing, I read it in—"

"The library, we know," the bratty blonde said, and then looked at Draco impatiently.

The man fought back a smirk. "Connor knew the answer. You should let him finish."

Connor shook his head. "No, please, continue," he murmured, blushing.

The Slytherin paused, and decided to push the issue further. The brat was looking especially sullen, and he supposed that was fair enough.

"Well, Connor was right. The boy remembered, and the creature bowed back, spilling the water at the top of its head. He ran as fast as he could, squirming through the crack where the moonlight danced through."

"Did the boy ever get his wish?" A girl asked, excitedly.

Draco paused. The story was embellished enough already. Why ruin it with the truth? "Yes. He—"

A familiar bark met his ears.

The children jumped up to their feet, having forgotten that the tale was not quite over, and clamored around the dog, who looked just as pleased to see him.

He stood up, slighted, brushing the grass off his trousers.

The blonde boy, apparently over the comment Draco had made earlier, tugged on his sleeve. In his outstretched hand was a ball. "You're the biggest of all of us, can you throw it?"

His hand took the item, staring at it. "But what will the rest of you do?"

The girl with the two missing teeth rolled her eyes, as if the answer were obvious, "Try to catch it first, duh!"

"That's…the game?" Draco asked, uncertainly.

"Yes, we all link around in a circle," the boy tugged him closer, and a circle began to form, "and we throw the ball to each other."

"What if someone drops it?"

"Then whoever did has to catch Albus," and the boy looked at him seriously, "and Albus is really, really fast."

The game lasted approximately six minutes before one of the children had given him a weak throw. He was damn sure it was on purpose too, because the giggling that erupted as soon as Draco watched the dog bolt past was immediate.

**::30::**

"Hermione couldn't make it?" Harry asked, as he was setting the tables for the luncheon. Inside there were House Elves making food for the guests, who were due to arrive at any moment. Everything seemed behind schedule.

Ron shook his head. "Said she was going to an appointment today. She's been seeing someone…it's helping, I think. She wants me to go but I'm not fond of telling all my secrets to some stranger,"

Harry looked at him and shrugged. "It would probably make her feel like you're supporting her if you give it a try."

"Why are you so much better at dating Hermione than I am?" Ron grumbled, placing the napkins beside each plate, "You've been single for years and yet _you're _giving me the advice,"

The darker-haired man winked at him, "Nah, she just likes to tell me things. I'm telling you what she won't tell you because women think their husbands should automatically just know,"

Ron paused, "Husband? Don't remind me, it still freaks me out sometimes."

"You've been dating each other for years, Ron. Don't tell me you haven't been thinking about this for about, oh, six years now? Speaking of which, have you gotten the tuxes sorted out yet? I still need to get mine." Harry saw some of the guests arriving and nodded cordially at them, pointing them to the welcome booth. Hopefully Madame Hirsch would buy them some time.

"Oh, Hermione sent off for that a while ago. Just arrived last week, actually."

"I hadn't gotten fitted!"

"Yeah, Hermione sorted it out. Don't ask, it's a woman thing." Ron made a face, and then leaned in closer, "What in Merlin's name is _Malfoy _doing here? And around the kids no less! He'll corrupt them in seconds if he had a chance with them alone,"

Harry shrugged. He hadn't sorted out his opinions about his Slytherin counterpart at all, and at the moment was simply attempting to ignore him as much as possible. He had to admit, though, as he turned around again, looking at the lean man darting around the field, the children seemed to adore him. Harry was usually under the impression that children were the best judges of character, but he decided that Malfoy was simply very good at charming the socks off of everyone and their dog. Except him, of course—there was no way Malfoy would _ever _be able to charm him.

The House Elves began carrying out the trays of appetizers, which gave Harry much relief. _Good, _he thought, _now they'll be entertained before the festivities start._

After the luncheon was over, there was usually a tour of the centre. The guests would see the children in their usual attire and made sure to have the visit be as least disruptive as possible.

Some of the children were sensitive to strangers—one that stood out in his mind was Connor Reed, a small, quiet boy, who reminded him much of Hermione in that his nose was always in a book, and Neville, in that his demeanor was usually shy and quiet—leading him to be easily pushed around by the others.

Harry took one last look at the man loping around the yard, haphazardly herding his group toward the dining section set up for the kids. Somehow Harry felt he had been the only one to notice Malfoy's presence at all. The sweets were usually special on these days, something like ice cream and various fixings of choice followed. The kids adored it, and it always, _always _made a mess.

Malfoy had to know he'd be stuck with the clean-up.

And yet—Harry couldn't tell if the smile on his face was genuine or not, it was Malfoy, after all—but the one on Connor's face seemed the brightest of all.

The emerald-eyed man frowned, shaking his head. Why was it so hard to believe he'd changed?

Because it was _Malfoy. _

"Harry, it's time for tour," Madame called, and he followed her cue, pasting on a smile.


	11. Chapter 11

**::31::**

There was one thing Harry could not deny about Draco Malfoy. Since the Slytherin had joined ranks with the centre, he had actually grown quite fond of the place, and seemed around more often than not—the dark-haired wizard had witnessed his blonde counterpart accompany Connor to the library on more than a few occasions.

He was also surprised to see how Malfoy's help with the children had made the centre run much smoother. The taller man had seemed to find a niche in storytelling. Despite the absence of pay, Hirsch mentioned that Malfoy was the one more often than not sharing stories in the mornings now. The woman, whom Harry thought could not grow any more infatuated with the silver-eyed git, gushed about him more than once.

A tinge of jealousy began to follow him. The centre was supposed to be _his _place, away from slimy snakes like Malfoy. What was worse was that he had managed to carve such an upstanding reputation in such a short amount of time. Most seemed inable to resist Malfoy's charming smile and eloquent mannerisms.

Despite Malfoy managing to cosy up to everyone else around the centre, the two men managed to avoid each other as much as possible. It was a silent agreement, one that had worked well.

One night, after a long tutoring session, Harry found himself searching for his rival as he walked out to his car. On certain nights the blonde was usually waiting at the bus stop, usually looking exhausted.

On this particular night Malfoy was in his usual waiting spot, but Harry, without thinking, crossed the street and approached him. The blonde started to sneer at him, probably more a reflex than anything else, and he said, quite prissily, "Yes, Potter? Do you need something? You seem to be overstepping the bounds of our agreement,"

Harry scowled. "Sod it, Malfoy. I was _going _to offer you a ride home, but if that's how you want things to be, then fine."

One slender brow arched, a smirk playing on his lips. The lighting from the pole above seemed to make them more…interesting. Harry shook the thought from his head.

"I do believe it was you who wanted to continue the petty rivalry we had at Hogwarts," he said smugly, "Has Saint Potter changed his mind?"

The Gryffindor swallowed his insult, and said, "Well, it's obvious you aren't going anywhere, and as coworkers, we may as well…"

The pale man seemed amused, delight dancing in his silver eyes. "May as well what?"

"Well, act like it. Act like a team rather than not." Harry muttered, shifting his gaze away from the smug expression that settled on Malfoy's face.

"Unlike you, Potter, who denied such a kinship during first year, I think I shall take you up on that."

Harry rolled his eyes. Just because Malfoy might have grown up a bit didn't mean he'd quit their banter, the one thing that seemed natural with each other. Harry hadn't found that with anyone else. "You're such a lovely young man," Harry supplied dryly, mocking Madame's constant praise, "actually being reasonable."

Malfoy rose to his feet, sauntering across the street. He looked back, calling, "Well as _much _as I'd love to have heart-to-hearts with my absolute _favourite _person in the world," he called sarcasm dripping from every word, "I don't actually have all night, so let's go, Potter."

The darker-haired man just rolled his eyes.

"Where are you staying?" Harry asked, as they were waiting at the light.

"Phoebe's place," Draco answered neutrally, fully expecting the surprise that flittered across his face.

"P-Phoebe's?" Harry said, somewhat slighted by the fact that she had taken Draco in as a new best friend so easily and yet seemed rather nonchalant around the Gryffindor.

There was a silence, and Malfoy made no attempt to fill it, waiting for whatever idiotic situation he had conjured up in his mind to explain his living situation.

"So…are you serious?" asked Harry hesitantly. Draco's eyes nearly bulged out.

"Are you daft, Potter? Of course not!"

Harry winced. "Well, it's good to know you don't base relationships on physical traits," he jabbed, despite the fact that had he been in the same situation, he would have behaved similarly.

"She already has a bloke. Doesn't really care for me, but I make smashing tea, so he can't really complain."

"Really?" Harry said, surprised, following Draco's gesture to turn left.

"Don't sound so surprised," the blonde said lightly, stifling amusement in his eyes, "I'm not awful at doing things the muggle way. Third building on the left."

The car idled, a short pause in the conversation following.

"Well, if you want, I can…drop you off when our shifts match," Harry suggested awkwardly, still somewhat surprised by the civility they'd managed to create.

The blonde shrugged, his lean frame leaning against the door. "Okay." He gave a curt nod and entered the building.

What a strange twist to the night, Harry mused. He was still uncertain on whether or not it was a good thing…but at least it kept things interesting.

**::32::**

A few weeks later, Ron, Hermione, and Harry all got together on his day off. They had wedding schedules to give him. The bushy-haired woman seemed to be doing better—there was still a tinge of sadness, he noticed, but her excitement for the wedding had returned.

It was coming up that following weekend.

Ron seemed to be relieved that his wife-to-be had taken a turn for the better. Worrying was not one of his favourite things in the world.

"I'll have to find someone to watch Albus," Harry said, "but it should be fine."

Somehow, though, even as he watched his two closest friends smile and laugh with him, the general cheer of the occasion surrounding them, he found himself not mentioning the acquaintanceship he had struck up with Malfoy. Perhaps because he himself still had doubts. Perhaps because it seemed personal. He wasn't sure.

They parted ways, and Harry found himself in a much better mood than usual. Seeing his friends had that effect on him, but a little voice in the back of his head devilishly suggested Malfoy had played a hand too.

"That's silly," he murmured aloud, entering his flat. Albus, overjoyed at his return, spent the rest of the night at the foot of his bed.

Meanwhile, Draco hadn't been getting the best news.

"What do you mean, you're leaving?" he sputtered, ignoring the annoyed look on Rupert's face. Pansy had always talked of leaving England, but he had hardly expected it to be so soon.

"I _told _you, Draco. I was only in town as a witness, for the war trials. By next Friday, they'll be done and overwith. I'll have no reason to stay. The flat belongs to the Ministry, so you'll be moving soon too."

The blonde sighed irritably. "Why hadn't you told me before? A weeks' notice is hardly enough for me to find a place on my salary,"

Pansy patted his hand consolingly. "Don't worry, I'll help find you something. I wouldn't _abandon _you, Draco."

But to Draco, it seemed to be exactly that.

Pansy had been thinking about Draco's move before she even mentioned it to him. Madame Hirsch and Harvey, two of the fulltime staff at the centre, both had families. Taking in Malfoy wasn't something she felt they would be suited for.

That left her with one option: Potter. She knew the neighborhood he lived in, and was certain he had a guestroom available. Convincing him was going to be the more difficult task.

The next day, she approached him as he was setting up his classroom in the morning. Harry looked a bit surprised, but managed to smile, albeit somewhat confusedly. "Can I help you with something, Phoebe?"

"I know we never got to know each other too well, Harry," she began somewhat apologetically. The news of her departure had spread the day before, and Harry thought it was some sort of attempt to make amends for her lack of sociableness around him.

She took a breath. "I have a favour to ask, and it's a lot, I know, but you're the only one that can help,"

Somehow Harry already knew it had to do with Malfoy.

"It's Ma—Mr. Corvus. You see, he can't keep up with the rent on his own at my place, but since I'd given him such short notice, there's a slim chance he'd be able to find a place before I move."

"So you want me…" Harry began slowly, "to take him in?"

"Just for a bit, until he finds a place! I know you're not the best of friends and it might be a bit awkward to have a roommate, but you're my last hope,"

Harry sighed. The situation already seemed as though it would be tense, just thinking about it. But it wasn't like he could argue with that—Phoebe had been one of the greatest support systems for the centre, and his Gryffindor side refused to let her down. "I suppose I could work it out. I needed someone to watch Albus next weekend anyway…"

She smiled. "Great. I really, really appreciate it, Harry."

**::33::**

"You're having me room…_with Harry sodding Potter? _Are you mad, Pansy? Don't you remember how well we got along at Hogwarts?" Draco was filled with a mixture of emotion—anxiety, embarrassment, and, worse, the realization that Pansy was right. He had nowhere else to turn.

Had anyone told him six years ago that he'd be roommates with the Savior of the Wizarding world, he'd had laughed. He wasn't laughing now.

A few days later, when Draco accompanied Harry for a lift, the darker-haired man seemed more uncertain than usual around him.

"I already know," the blonde started, avoiding the other man's stare, "of what Phoebe asked you. I meant it when I said no favours, Potter." The last bit came across harshly.

He stopped at the flat the blonde was soon moving out of. "It isn't for _you, _Malfoy. It's for Phoebe. Don't forget that," he snapped.

Draco slammed the door behind him, not even giving one semblance of a farewell.

_So much for a partnership, _Harry thought irritably. Malfoy was a whiny, spoilt git, and he always would be.

The rest of the week was spent with Draco focused more on dodging Potter than anything else. He knew that he'd have to face him sooner or later, but much preferred to put it off. When the move-out date edged closer, Harry finally cornered him.

"Look, I need someone to watch Albus this weekend anyway. I won't be around, so you can just…do whatever you need to."

Oh. Well, that made things easier. The blonde nodded curtly, a habit he'd taken whenever feeling as though he was accepting help from the man he'd long considered his rival.

"Do you have many things to bring over?" The Gryffindor asked, trying to ignore the awkwardness of the situation.

Draco shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Potter. Head over to your Weasly wedding, I'll be fine, and so will your dog." The thinly veiled warning was clear. _You'll have your space and I'll have mine. _

"Okay," murmured Harry. "I s'pose I'll see you Sunday, then. I'll give you my keys after work,"

Malfoy gave him another curt nod.

Irritation erupted within the emerald-eyed man—the least the git could do was be even the slightest bit thankful. He supposed that was too much to ask from a Malfoy.


	12. Chapter 12

**::34::**

Draco didn't see Harry after work. He had, in fact, left early. The blonde was certain his rival was going to great lengths to avoid the fact that not only would they see each other at work, they would also be seeing each other at his flat. He had given the key to Pansy.

She gave him what he needed, his luggage bag deposited neatly at his feet, and turned to leave after bidding him a farewell—Pansy was no good at conversation when parting words. She'd never really cared before. When it came to Draco, on the other hand…well, she did care. The blonde was somewhat irritated by her standoffish behaviour, and was too proud to admit the fact that he had no idea where Potter actually lived.

There was a reason that the last two days, technically his days off, he had still come to the centre. It had grown to a be a habit, true, though recently it had been more of a defensive measure—Pansy was leaving, and she'd made it clear through slow detachment that she didn't want to talk about it. Even Rupert—who he found suspiciously rumpled-looking in the mornings—was being shut out.

Less time around the headcase that Pansy had become was better than more.

Moments later he was too distracted to think about her—Albus, apparently realizing that he no longer had to dote on the children that adored him so—bounded toward him joyfully, his two pays firmly on either shoulder as he lapped at the Slytherin's face.

"Ugh, stop that, you stupid beast," Malfoy said irritably. Then the jingle of his collar triggered an idea—Albus would have the address for Potter's place. He assumed that despite the black-haired man mentioning the fact that Malfoy would be taking Albus with him or bothering to share his address, he apparently had enough faith in the man's deductive abilities. Malfoy was unsure if it was intended to be something complimentary or if Harry really was just dodging any chance he had to see him.

The cool air that hit his face was unusually cold, causing the man to wrap his jacket around him tightly. Albus happily accompanied him, loping a few feet ahead of him, always checking back to be sure that he was there.

Realizing he would have to walk to his destination, as the bus wouldn't allow a dog to board, he scowled. It was one thing to insult him to his face—Draco found that more honest and proper—rather than use the passive-aggressive ones that were currently being hurled his way.

"Now who's acting as the spoilt, self-entitled brat?" he said aloud, sneering.

The man of his thoughts, on the other hand, was busy socializing with his friends at the wedding reception that night. The distraction was something he sorely needed, for even he knew that the stunt he pulled on Malfoy was downright petty. But he didn't want to feel guilt. Not over _Malfoy,_ of all people, the boy who had taunted and teased him for years.

He dreaded the inevitable return he would have to make.

Meanwhile, the blonde had managed to find the Gryffindor's abode quite easily—Albus bolted straight for the door, waiting impatiently. He found himself curious about what may lie beyond that barrier.

It was clean—the kitchen was large. The dining table looked very similar to the one he had grown up using—polished with dark wood and delicate etchings around the corners. He looked closer.

"Lions," he scoffed, "Of course,"

One thing that infuriated Draco more after the little stunt Potter had pulled was the fact that his flat was so nice. He spied all sorts of trinkets representing riches—many very similar to the ones he used to have. He hated being reminded of all that had changed.

He wandered through room after room—for a flat it was more like a mansion. There was a library. The master bedroom housed a large bed, the duvet maroon-colored and no doubt the softest material that there was. On the side table he saw a picture of a man and a woman, smiling and waving.

Across the corridor was the guest room. On the pillow was a short note, detailing that he could arrange his room as he saw fit. He dropped his luggage at the foot of his bed.

"Just don't make everything green," it said as a postnote. Draco could easily imagine the dry tone it had been written in. His silver eyes narrowed, a sneer settling on his face. _What an insufferable bastard, _Draco thought, _and he's my bloody flatmate._

The more Harry thought about how he had avoided any conversation with Malfoy before the Slytherin entered his home, the more anxious and regret he felt. What had he been thinking, simply handing off the key like that? Especially to the one person he trusted least?

"It wasn't even his day to work, I wouldn't have been able to hand off the key anyway," Harry muttered, "It was _Friday,_ not come-to-the-centre-and-spend-all-day-cosying-up-to-everyone-and-irritate-Harry day. But that's every day, of course,"

Harry still knew it was a poor excuse.

_I'm an idiot, _he thought, for the millionth time.

**::35::**

"You promised, Harry," Ron said, hurt flashing in his eyes. His friend hadn't needed to say anything—the way the ebony-haired man was grabbing for his jacket said all he needed to know. The man had caught him edging away from the loud, cheerful chatter all night.

Usually he didn't say anything. But this was his _wedding, _damn it, and the least Harry could do is put up through it!

"I'll be right back, Ron, I swear," he said, turning to meet the gaze drilling into his back. "I wouldn't miss two of my best friends' weddings!"

The ginger-haired man's jaw stiffened. One of the earliest signs of Ron's quick temper coming into play. He looked into Harry's emerald eyes and said, "Whatever it is, don't go. I know it's hard to see everyone here…" he paused—Rom meant more than just Ginny, who had brought Neville with her, "and _not _see everyone that _should_ be here, but you can't just run and hide, Harry,"

"I'm not running!" Harry said in exasperation, "I've…I've got to go check on something."

"What, Harry? What? Don't tell me it's the dog, because I know you got that sorted away. Don't tell me it's work, because I made _sure _you took the time off. So what?"

The Gryffindors stared off in an awkward pause. To tell Ron about Malfoy now would ruin their wedding, he thought—not that it was bad or good news, particularly, just that such a dramatic…unveil could make their good news seem less exciting in comparison.

"You can't tell Hermione," he began, looking at his hands, shifting his feet.

The groom-to-be rolled his eyes. "Not that she wouldn't be able to figure it out on her own, but Harry, I wouldn't tell her. I didn't tell her about the time you got smashing drunk and—"

"Hey!" Harry yelped, not at all caring to be reminded of the incident in which Ron still kept pictures of, "Nothing like that! It's just…I left something back at my place—"

Relief flooded his friend's eyes. "You left your present behind? Merlin, Harry, is that all? You know 'Mione and I won't care, you can give it to us later. Besides, all we really want are you here."

He looked at his best friend. _Really _looked—the animated way he was moving his hands, the joy in his eyes, the nervous way he was fiddling with his bare ring finger—when had been the last time he'd seen Ron so happy? He was right, Harry had been avoiding him and the rest of his friends more and more.

"Right." Harry pasted on a smile. "Right, I was just being silly." His brows furrowed at the sight at the end of the corridor, in the large ballroom.

"Ron…I think—Is that _Charlie _trying to snog the chocolate fountain?"

"I told my mother to look after him!" Ron flushed, scrambling away to his inebriated brother. Harry followed, helping Ron try to rescue what had been the greatest hit at the party prior to Charlie's manhandling. The elder Weasley apparently had a fondness for chocolate when drunk.

"Harry," Charlie slurred, chocolate around his lips, smudged across his nose, "Did anyone ever tell you that your eyes look quite lovely in that suit of yours?"

"N-no, Charlie," Harry said, struggling to hold the man's weight as he put two limp arms around his neck, the drunken mumbling continuing as Ron stood back and stared, too amused to help. The man's face came closer and closer, and Harry knew what was going to happen.

Kissing a drunk person is never a nice thing, the Gryffindor thought, firmly pushing Charlie and his sloppy tongue away. His mouth tasted of chocolate and firewhiskey, not particularly a fine combination.

"Charlie!" Mrs. Weasely sighed, running to his rescue and shooting daggers at Ron in his defense, "Get off of Harry right this instant!"

Ron joined him as the other Weasely was being cared for. "I bet 'Mione and her party is about as fun as Potions with Snape after that little display."

Harry scowled.

"But don't worry," his friend continued, "even if you were concerned she would feel left out, I got a picture! And I'm _definitely _showing her this one."

"Just get me a firewhiskey," the other Gryffindor muttered.

"Washing down Charlie with more firewhiskey? Brilliant!"

**::36::**

After a night of nosing through every cupboard, drawer, and available crevice, Draco had to come to a very sad conclusion, one that made even having free reign of the Golden Boy's flat less appealing than it had been previously.

"Harry Potter is, in fact, a very, very dull man." It was true—there weren't any dirty letters, nor even _one _racy picture to be found. All Potter had kept of his fan letters was one written by a young boy, stating that he'd aspired to be just like him when he grew up.

"Sop and hogwash," Draco had muttered, tossing it aside.

There wasn't a sip of alcohol in the place either, despite the blonde finding some potions to ease hangovers. The walls were bare, just as his own and Pansy's had been. Even the master bedroom, though showing some pieces of his Gryffindor past, bore no facts to the man that lived and slept there.

It was as if the Harry Potter everyone else knew and expected to be—the one plastered on every newspaper, the one written about in at least two or three different books, the one that every girl swooned over and perhaps some of the men too—that Harry Potter did not exist.

Even the trinkets Draco had first spied were really no more than an attempt to appear as something…normal. Harry Potter had no idea how to appear like everyone else—and his adoring fans thought they found so much of themselves in him.

The truth was, Harry felt like something much less than the man they'd been cheering for. He felt like a shadow.

Non-existent. Barely living.

Draco had no way of knowing these things, of course, but even the blonde found it odd that things were so impersonal. He had to call defeat, however, on finding anything to use for their strategic conversations.

He found the whole ritual of making a sandwich for dinner, the ritual of taking a bath before bed—all of it so strange and foreign. Everything was Potter's—he smelled him in every room, the robe hanging on the bathroom door one sign of his presence. The Slytherin had never been so close with his enemy. Never this intimate, and never alone with such a thing. It was unsettling.

In two days, Potter would be back, approaching the same territory—the same bareness. He was careful to not unpack his bag. Careful to not tip his cards—no need to have Potter find the book, for example, that he'd been hiding all this time and attempting to ignore.

Something fluttered in his chest. Draco recognized it, as it was something he still felt frequently, but never about Potter.

Fear.


	13. Chapter 13

**::37::**

The wedding had gone as well as it could have. Ron and Hermione seemed eager to escape the eyes of their guests and go on their honeymoon as soon as possible, but Harry tried to stay 'round til it was late.

After all, the later he stayed out, the less likelihood he'd bump into Malfoy. Hopefully the blonde would be sleeping when he arrived.

"Have a good vacation you two," Harry said, hugging his friends close. He really had missed them and felt guilty for pushing them away as much as he had.

Apparating home was simple, though Harry wished he could have used another mode of transportation. It could have burned more time. A loud crack filled the darkened flat. He was surprised to see it look the same as before he left.

Albus, lying at the foot of Malfoy's bed, bounded out of the room, ready to greet the Gryffindor. Malfoy followed. His greeting, he was certain, Harry was dreading.

Emerald eyes met his silvery ones, an air of nonchalance exuding from the taller man's presence.

"Hey," the darker-haired man said, awkwardly wringing his hands.

"Hi," Draco said, as casual as possible. He slipped past the Gryffindor, his arm barely brushing against his counterpart's. Whilst in the process of making tea, he felt the gaze jabbing into his back.

It had been lucky that Harry had arrived later. Earlier that morning, he finally confronted the book he'd been avoiding. It had made no response to his questions. Draco was relieved. He let himself believe that the book was of no real significance after all, aside of being some old remnant of the war. It wasn't housing any harm to others, no curses or black magic.

In the back of his mind he knew that he wasn't investigating as closely as he should have. He knew that he should at least tell someone of what the books did.

But he wanted to be done with the war. With the memories. So he denied it all, and kept it buried away. Besides, the ministry had gotten far enough with the trials that he didn't think his involvement was necessary, and nor were the books. It was blank, and no longer a threat. So why treat it as one?

There was a long silence until the kettle whistled, and Draco's tea was ready. The blonde settled into one of the chairs at the dining table.

"So…"

The airy front never wavered. An arched brow settled on his face, his eyes glittering only slightly of…_something. _

"That was rather a pathetic move you pulled earlier, Potter."

Harry froze. He knew that his actions would have consequences sooner or later, but he didn't expect to be confronted so soon.

"If you had wanted me to not come 'round, you might as well have said it to my face," he took a sip of his tea, "instead of acting like a spineless coward."

Harry's blood boiled. "Look, you git," his eyes blazed with anger, palms set flat on the wood as he leaned closer, parallel to where Malfoy sat, "We hate each other. It's a simple as that. I doubt you're any more as thrilled to be here as I am."

The blonde seemed to muse over those words, the moonlight shining upon his face.

"I suppose we do," he said simply, with a shrug.

"You _suppose?_" Harry bit out, anger marring his features.

"You're the one acting defensive and wronged over my mere existence," said the other.

"So?" Harry scoffed, "What, you're _so _much better than me because you refuse to quit hiding? The Malfoy I knew wouldn't have acted this way. He'd have sparred with me."

"I'm not saying I want to buddy up with you and suddenly be _fwiends," _Draco muttered, rolling his eyes, "but I would simply consider it an insult to myself to continue acting as though I were fifteen."

The Gryffindor scoffed. "You really are a piece of work, trying to twist this around. You may have others fooled, Malfoy, but you aren't fooling me. I know you. You only do things to get what _you _want."

"And you're so sure I know what I want?" Malfoy said, an eyebrow raised. "Do share, because it's news to me."

"You want to be on top again. Rich, ordering people around. Those things always made you feel better about yourself."

Malfoy laughed. Actually laughed, and not with a trace of maliciousness. The amusement danced in his eyes. This took Harry by surprise.

"I do miss some things about the privileged life I had, Potter—the clothes, the food, the lovely hair products," the blonde paused, realizing he was treading into dangerous territory. Why was he being honest with Potter? Especially with the way he thrived for any reason to continue playing his little game?

"Here's what I think, Potter," he continued, a slight smirk on his lips, "you're lost. Your whole life up to this point was all about being the savior, the Golden Boy, the hero. Now it's over. Now you're flailing, desperate for anything that hasn't changed. And then when I come around? Oh, you're pleased about that—what familiarity I bring! The chance to relive your past, the only thing you know!"

"No," Harry said, snarling, slamming a fist on the table. Albus, detecting the tension of the moment, slunk away.

"You can't handle the loss of Voldemort, the deatheaters. Your life centered around them."

"So did yours," Harry spat out.

"There's a difference between you and me, Harry," Malfoy said, a slight tinge of malice in his tone—some habits were hard to break. "I've given up. I don't hang on to such toxic things." That was a flat-out lie—most moments spent alone, he found himself reliving the night of his parents. Of Voldermort, his senseless murders and laughing when he saw others in pain.

"What do you _want,_ Malfoy? To dangle your supposed superiority in my face? To take out all that's happened by stealing _my _place, the centre _and _my own flat?"

Malfoy shook his head. "I don't like you, Potter. I never will. Don't think I've suddenly forgiven you for all you've done, don't think for a _second _that I'd ever consider you a comrade. The centre, the children—you may think it's all yours because of your involvement with its upbringing. You may think it odd that I, with my views on purebloods, would ever stoop to work with those I was conditioned to hate—but you know what, Scarhead? It isn't yours. It never was, nor was the war. Stop acting as though you're the only one dealing with the weight of the aftermath. The Potter I knew would never have martyred himself, and yet that's what _you're _doing. It's pathetic and selfish."

Harry was shaking with rage. How dare Malfoy come into his home and judge him! How dare Malfoy act as if he were so much better!

"The centre and all those in it are partly mine now," He said quietly, a simmering intensity in his eyes, "if you ever threaten that, I _will _go after you."

"So why the fuck are you staying here, if you find me such a threat, your worst enemy?" Harry snarled.

"Phoebe's favour," he reminded him, a slight trace of smugness in his eyes. He was winning this fight. Potter slid into one of the chairs, scowling.

"If you care about the centre and everyone that's a part of it, if you care enough to set aside your own selfishness because you can't see past the petty rivalry we have, then you'd be willing to strike a truce. For the best interests of the centre, stop playing these little games. And, may I remind you, _you _were the one that brought up the idea of a partnership. Going back on it now?" he said mockingly.

The worst part was that Harry knew he was right. That enraged him further. "I'll do what I need to for the centre," he answered finally, in an icy tone.

The pale man, with a sternness in his eyes, simply gave a curt nod. "Sorted, then. I'll be as civil to you if you be civil to me."

Later, after they had parted ways for some sleep, Harry realized the whole spiel was supposed to catch him off guard. Malfoy hated being in Potter's debt, and before the Gryffindor could dangle it in his face, the Slytherin struck preemptively.

He was a bastard, but it was still a brilliant move. Harry would simply have to find a way to counter it.

**::38::**

The next morning Harry arose to the smell of eggs and bacon. His stomach growled. He rarely had time for such a meal. "Wait a minute, that's my food! The thieving prat!"

Before Harry could even confront him on it and start another argument, Malfoy had set the dishes in the sink and was halfway to the door.

"Where are you off to?"

"Work," he answered simply.

The silence felt odd after the blonde left. He looked at the kitchen. The Slytherin had made enough only for himself. That was no surprise to Harry.

He looked for Albus, about to fill his food bowl with food, when he found that it already was. That, on the other hand, actually did surprise him.

Walking into work thirty minutes later, Albus bounded to the classroom where he heard Malfoy's voice echoing in the halls. It was storytime.

In that moment, the Gryffindor realized something—Malfoy wasn't going to leave. Malfoy wasn't going to be the last familiarity of his former life that he'd hoped him to be. Everything was shifting and twisting, making him feel as if he were standing still while everyone else he knew had moved on. It made him sick.

Lessons were starting soon, and he went to busy himself. To get his mind off of the carousel his life had become.

A few hours later, Harry caught a glimpse of his now-flatmate having a conversation with Conner. The two had grown especially close over the last few weeks. He saw a tenderness in Malfoy that he'd never witnessed anywhere else—he'd never even expected Malfoy to possess it.

When Connor had entered his classroom for lessons, Harry took him aside, curious about his interactions with Malfoy.

"So, you and Mr. Corvus are getting on pretty well, hm?" He began, with a fake smile.

The boy nodded shyly. "He talks about the books I read. About the different creatures he'd seen. He said I could even be a gamekeeper, if I wanted!"

"That's nice," he said, before continuing on with his questioning, "what about his stories? What are they about?" He was wondering if there was a Slytherin slant on things, a bias that could have been instilled in the younger ones.

"All sorts of things. Adventures, mostly. He likes to tell us about all the sorts of jobs wizards can grow up to have, the different adventures they can have!"

Connor paused, kicking at the floor. "He's my bestest friend." It wasn't a statement of delight, but one of seriousness.

The next few weeks had passed without much variation. Draco and Harry had managed to keep a sort of balance between them, even at the flat—meals were eaten at different times, shifts kept them busy at work, and the only thing that really kept them linked was Albus. When Harry had to stay late, Malfoy would take him back to Harry's place.

**::39::**

Shortly after moving in with Potter, there had been a shift. The truce was being upheld, and somehow, slowly, finding another place for Malfoy live hadn't particularly crossed each other's minds. Despite their squabbles—over the shower or the last piece of pizza, for example, there was a sort of dependency that developed.

Draco still felt a tension and awkwardness when Harry was around, and it was likewise for the Gryffindor. They were still wary, moving like pawns on a chessboard, making sure to never let their guard down around each other. But…Harry had found that even a cool, nonchalant approach to the man didn't deter him too much. It was almost like…they were growing to perhaps not entirely mind each other's presence.

It was the last thing they expected. Harry had never dreamed that Malfoy and him could ever…actually get along. He'd never expected that he'd studied the way he moved, the way he interacted with others, or the way he'd catch the blonde humming quietly any time he made a meal. And the thing that surprised him the most, aside from everything else? That not _once _had he witnessed Malfoy do a bit of magic.

One night he'd called him out on it. "Why are you making it that way?"

The blonde half-turned to look at him, stirring at the pasta he was making. "What way? Really, Potter, there isn't any other way to make _pasta."_

Harry rolled his eyes. "No, I meant without magic."

An indecipherable flicker of emotion flashed through his eyes. Then he shrugged casually. "Some of us aren't lazy prats."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'd expected someone like you to use magic at every opportunity. Being a pureblood and all,"

"And I'd expected you to actually respond to the letters Weasley and Granger have been sending you, to continue to spend most of your time with them. Instead you've been letting them pile up, sending a some short letters now and then to keep them away."

Harry felt his face grow red. He was hoping Draco hadn't actually noticed that.

"I suppose you shouldn't assume you know me well then, hmm?"

At that, Draco finished preparing his meal and left the kitchen. Neither of them let their conversations get too personal.

It wasn't safe.


	14. Chapter 14

**::40::**

The false sense of security and nonchalance Harry had lulled himself into over the situation with Malfoy was quickly shattered, and it wasn't actually Malfoy who had done anything.

Ron had showed up, taking him by surprise, with a stern expression. "There's a lot of things I want to say to you, mate—a lot of things. But this one is most important. For your sake I won't say it here, so come with me. To lunch."

"I can't just—"

"I'm not fucking around, Harry. Now." His demeanor caught him off-guard. A few children were looking at them strangely.

Harry sighed. "Fine, let's go."

At the café that Ron had led him to, Harry found himself uncomfortable by the strong stare coming from his best friend.

"First of all, it's a bit of a shitty thing to do to keep ignoring your friends, _especially _when Hermione needs support. Did you really think after the wedding, the whole business with—" Ron closed his eyes, not wanting to say more.

"Ron, I know—"

"I'm not done," he said icily. Harry had never seen the ginger-haired man so angry at him before.

"When were you going to tell us you were shacking up with _Malfoy?_ Had it conveniently slipped your mind? Do you _know _how strange it seems, not to mention suspicious! What if the papers got wind of it?"

"Look," Harry began, knowing that Ron was still angry and less likely to believe a word he said, "Malfoy and I…we called a truce. He's…well, he's been a good…he's helping out at the centre. I _know _how strange it seems and frankly I'm not completely okay with it myself, but the centre needs all the help we can get."

"So what?" the Auror scoffed, "you're just going to sweep things under the rug and ignore that he's part of the reason _those _kids lost their families? You're really going to allow him to even have the _right _to enter such a place after all he's done?"

The shorter man grit his teeth. "I'm not siding with him. Not in the slightest. But we have one thing in common—we both care about the centre. We both care about the work we're doing. If there's ever a reason to strike a truce, I would consider that the best one."

Merlin, he was actually defending Malfoy.

"And live with him, obviously. That's clearly the best idea," Ron answered sarcastically.

"What are you so concerned about?" Harry snapped, "It's my job, _my _life. Not yours."

Ron's eyes narrowed. "Do what you want. Don't expect me to be sorry if he screws you over."

"Fine." Harry snapped, getting up so fast that the chair squealed as it scraped across the floor.

Later that night, the dark-haired wizard found himself in a sour mood. He'd managed to make it through the rest of the day, but Ron's visit had really put a damper on it.

Malfoy, in his usual silent fashion, prepared his dinner. He was apparently not feeling inclined to put much effort into it because all he was making was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The clatter of the dishes in the sink filled the air, and Harry flinched at it.

"Do you really have to leave your mess behind?" he said harshly, "The least you could do is clean up after yourself. I know it's a foreign concept to you, but get over it."

Malfoy stared at him, his plate in one hand. "I'll wash the dishes tomorrow, Potter. Get that stick out of your arse for Merlin's sake, I clean things for a living now, if that had somehow slipped your mind," he snarled.

"You've been here for a month. Why haven't you looked for other places? This was supposed to be temporary. What, do you just enjoy irritating me all the time?"

"Fuck you, Potter," Malfoy spat, "you're a hypocrite. All that trite that's in the magazines and papers, all the books? About you being a hero, a courageous, perfect man who can do no wrong? Lies, all of them. You're a bastard, but you can get away with it because you can hide behind the Golden Boy title. Like always."

"Find yourself another person to take advantage of with all your crap," Harry snarled in response, "I'm not stupid, you _want _to use my title to gain an advantage. It's always about you."

Malfoy scoffed. "You really are a paranoid, selfish, egotistic arsehole." He turned on his heel and went to the guest room, slamming the door behind him. Albus whined, looking at Harry mournfully. Whenever they fought, the canine grew anxious.

Hours later, when the shadows darkened and the fire he had started crackled merrily in the room, Harry found himself lying on the couch, sipping at some firewhiskey, entranced by the dancing flames.

He didn't notice Malfoy leaning against the wall, staring at him.

Albus had, however, and padded over to the blonde, nudging at his hand. He stroked the dog's head. Harry turned, and saw him there. He shifted his gaze back to the fire wordlessly.

A long silence passed, and Malfoy began to turn, headed back to the bedroom, when the Gryffindor finally spoke aloud.

"Ron found out you're staying here."

Malfoy stopped, and then returned to leaning against the wall. He seemed intrigued. "I'm imagining that didn't go so well, seeing as the Weasel hates me."

Harry didn't meet his gaze, just nodded for a moment. "I told him what we'd agreed on."

Malfoy laughed. "Oh, Merlin. He probably thought you'd gone mad."

The Gryffindor didn't change his stoic expression. "Something like that." He looked down at the bottle in his hand. Deciding that he'd had enough, he set it on the end table behind him. "They—well, him and Hermione—want to adopt one of the kids from the centre. Haven't set up another visit for a while."

"Kind of hard to do that when you dodge any real attempt at a letter or visit with them," Malfoy remarked dryly. Harry found it odd he hadn't insulted his friends yet. Instead it seemed almost like…he was siding with them.

"I suppose," he answered simply.

"It is a bit odd that you're avoiding the people who are supposedly your friends. I mean, hell, you're spending more time with your mortal enemy than with them," Malfoy continued.

"It's different. They're different."

Malfoy raised a brow. "Not that I doubt that, since the Weasel and Granger were always were nothing near normal. Constantly following you around, latched on like leeches. Always seemed weird to me."

"Because people can have actual friends as opposed to acquaintances that you just put up with as long as they benefit you?" Harry tossed back, raising his brows.

Though it seemed like an insult, Malfoy didn't quite take it as one. "So why _are _you avoiding them? You three were always the irritating trio, getting into trouble."

"Because," Harry sighed. "Because they're like everyone else now. Part of this world," he gestured to the space around him, "the one that's no longer about Voldemort or the war, the one that's about normalcy and creating families and growing old with loved ones, dying of age rather than curses,"

"And you?" Malfoy asked.

He looked at the blonde, meeting his silver gaze, finding nothing sarcastic or mocking within it.

"My world died with Voldemort," he said simply, "all that's left are the broken pieces left behind. The children. Sooner or later they'll grow up too, moving, changing, adapting. They'll stop being the broken pieces."

It was the most honest he'd ever been with anyone, and it was with Malfoy. A part of him felt uneasy about being so truthful with the man that could easily twist his words in banter.

"Do you wish the war hadn't ended?" the Slytherin asked.

"No, I'm glad it ended," Harry said, "I just wish I had died with it."

Malfoy sighed. "Well, Potter. That's a load of crap. Voldemort and his war—yeah, it was your life, and yeah, no one else would know what it would be like to be expected to save everyone when you couldn't even make a potion right," he muttered, "but even if others define you by your actions, you're the only one that knows differently. You may as well follow your gut, Potter. Even if you get yourself into some ridiculous mess, it's what you always did."

The darker-haired man looked at him curiously. "Why are you being nice?"

Malfoy laughed. "I'm not being nice, you daft prat, I'm telling you the truth."

"You're the only one who has."

The blonde shrugged. "I'm the only one on this planet that wouldn't coddle you or waste my time being dazzled by your pathetic fame."

"Oh yes," Harry answered dryly, "because I secretly would just adore for you to coddle me."

Malfoy's face twisted, hiding amusement. "Don't be vile, Potter." 

**::42::**

The next morning, both men had said nothing about their conversation the night prior. Malfoy did notice, however, that their banter had grown lighter—more about teasing rather than intending to cause the most harm.

"You really are hopeless at cooking, Potter," Malfoy sighed, watching him attempt to fry an egg. He waved the shorter man away from the stove, taking over.

"You've got to keep the heat lower and—oh, you didn't put any butter on the pan? How do you expect to fry it, you moron? I reckon I can save it, but it'll be scrambled instead."

Harry watched in half amusement and in half surprise. Malfoy handed him the plate, the egg at least edible.

"You know," the Gryffindor said, with a grin, as Malfoy prepared his own breakfast, "you technically just made me breakfast."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Oh yes, next comes the baby in the carriage,"

Harry scoffed, "Please, you'd have to work harder than just making me breakfast for _that_."

"So, lunch, dinner, and dessert first then? You are quite the slut."

The darker-haired man nearly choked on his eggs, turning crimson.

"Prude," the blonde answered, shaking his head gently. He turned back to his breakfast.

Albus laid beside the entryway to the kitchen, his tail thumping against the floor, a grin on his face.


	15. Chapter 15

**::43::**

The two Hogwarts rivals came to work together, something that had never happened before. The green-eyed man realized in retrospect how awful it looked—and even Draco must have felt the tinge of bad timing, because not a retort was to be heard. He simply exited the car and walked away, quickly. He was heading to the back entrance.

It didn't make things any less strange to everyone else. They'd appeared to be near-strangers to the rest, suddenly showing up together must have seemed odd. No one else knew about Draco's occasional nighttime ride because there was no one else to know.

Here, in the light…everyone knew.

And it was completely bloody innocent, for Merlin's sake!

Albus paused between them, but trotted alongside Harry.

"You and Mr. Corvus are getting to be good friends," Madame Hirsch said, smiling in a way Harry could only describe as sly, "Perhaps you could see if he'd be interested in a date sometime?"

The Gryffindor choked, turning back at her—"What makes you think he'd be interested in a _date? _We're just coworkers!" Then he froze, realizing all too late what she had meant, and prayed to _Merlin _she wouldn't catch it.

What was he thinking? She'd—and no one else in their right mind—would ever suggest…_that. _Harry inwardly cringed, and wished he knew how to make the humiliation go away.

The woman furrowed her brows at him, as if trying to decipher the meaning behind his answer, and, apparently deciding that Harry was simply joking, threw her head back and laughed. It was the sort of laugh where the light danced off of the innermost molars in a person's mouth.

"I meant with _me,_ Mr. Potter! Oh, you are quite the funny one, I must admit." She answered, the red blush on her cheeks fading away.

Even Albus had abandoned him, ears pricking up at Draco's voice in the room down the corridor.

"Funny," Harry echoed, shrugging awkwardly, trying to escape to his classroom before anyone _else _managed to comment on the rather large hole he'd dug himself into.

"Oh, Harry," Madame continued, clearly not ready to relinquish him to the storm of his own embarrassment just yet, "We _have _to set up a farewell party for Phoebe. It's so sad she's leaving, but such a good friend deserves a proper farewell!"

Somehow Harry doubted it was just the farewell the woman was looking forward to—Madame Hirsch had a particular fondness for sweets.

"Er, I think she's gone," the raven-haired man answered in confusion, the realization that Phoebe had slipped away nearly unnoticed to everyone else suddenly apparent, "I saw her the Friday before the wedding—"

"_Gone?" _The word was said with such dramatic intensity that even Draco, who was doing his damndest to appear as if he had arrived in his usual fashion, which was by public transport, faltered for a moment in the midst of telling his story.

Harry pretended he hadn't noticed that the blonde's voice had silenced for a moment. Really, it was more strange that Madame Hirsch had finally noticed a month after the woman had left, not that he was _listening _to Malfoy's story about dragons—well, it suspiciously sounded as if it were about the time Harry had faced the dragon in the tournament.

"Yes, but I'm sure you can send her a nice card through owl?" The man suggested, his voice growing meek as the cartoonish horror grew in Madame's eyes. The excuse to eat sweets on company time—stolen before she had the chance! The silence she exuded was Harry's escape—he rushed though the doorway to his classroom before she could say more.

Later, when the children were lining up outside his room, waiting for roll call, Draco stood next to him, watching them file in as each name was read aloud, whispering, "Really, who just forgets about the girl with half a face? Are you sure she should even be trusted to man the welcome desk? She might send one of the kids out for a time-out and forget about him!"

Harry fought back a smile and didn't answer. "Sarah, Kevin, Caden,"

"She probably has half a brain," the blonde decided a few moments later, undeterred by the shorter man ignoring him.

The children giggled and Harry shushed them. The last thing he needed was for them to repeat what Malfoy had just said in Madame's earshot. The pale man smiled a real smile, his silver eyes lighting up in a way the savior had never really seen up close before.

"Connor, I called your name three times, go in please,"

Draco nodded at the boy, who was being uncharacteristically defiant, refusing to let go of the taller man's hand. After the boy had finally obeyed, just as Harry was leaving, his rival said smugly, "They like me better than you."

"They do not!" Harry answered in a tone far too childish for his age. The Slytherin, pleased at finally eliciting a response, just smirked at him and sauntered away.

**::44::**

"Oh, excuse me sir, do you know—"

There were a certain amount of things Draco was getting used to encountering in his life. One thing was bugs—bugs of all sorts of shapes and sizes. He was even getting a handle on the way he reacted when one appeared.

The second, obviously, was Harry Potter. Their truce was…dare he say it…maybe even a bit fun. Or perhaps he was simply going mad. That seemed more plausible.

The third was that, no matter how much or how little effort he put into cleaning tile, it was never really going to be clean enough for there _not _to be bits of stray hairs sticking to the wet surface. It was one of the little things that absolutely drove him mad. He still hated his job.

He could be as accustomed to it as much as he wanted, but it still caused some irritation to rise. Being done with it did cause a wave of appreciation to crash upon him every time, however, and today, even with its strange beginning, was no different.

However, the bushy-haired girl in front of him—the girl who had long since grown out of her large teeth and awkward features, the girl he taunted and teased with more than a hint of malice during both their years at Hogwarts—her presence he would never grow accustomed to.

It didn't help that there was a long black swipe of dirt on his forehead, unkempt silver hair, and a broom in his hand. Everything about him screamed _servant. _Malfoy couldn't even bother to try and act as if it were some grand coincidence.

"You need your eyes checked, Granger," Malfoy sneered, before she could recover from her surprise, "This isn't the ladies' room."

The woman simply rolled her eyes, apparently not interested in having a sparring match. "I was supposed to meet with Harry today, to go over some paperwork and to set up a few more visits with some of the children here."

The tall man attempted to look bored. "What, the idea of having few mini-Weasels and their corresponding sweaters is suddenly a fate too cruel to bear?"

Hermione's face colored, and her eyes stared into his with malice so strong it nearly made him take a step back.

"'Mione?" Harry's voice suddenly rang out, his footsteps filling the tense silence. The wizard's breath sounded ragged, as if he'd been running. When he reached the final stair, he sighed, "Sorry, I was just—Oh, you've…run into Malfoy."

The intensity of her glare unwavered, and she looked at her friend. "Yes. It's been quite the reunion," she all but spat out at the blonde. Before Harry could respond, she stomped down the stairs, stating that something had come up and she'd be back later.

"What did you say?" The Gryffindor asked, crossing his arms.

"I may or may not have had made an unflattering comment about offspring with the Weasel," he responded, and upon seeing Harry's anger, continued defensively, "Old habits die hard, Potter!"

"So it would seem," the green eyed man snarled, leaving without offering an explanation for the sudden rage the blonde had triggered in both Gryffindors.

"Bloody Gryffindors," Malfoy muttered. Not even the fact that his shift was over could uplift his spirits.

Albus, spying Draco's retreating form from the centre, barked and raced to meet him. They were both used to the walks home now, and usually it was a nice way to end the day.

He arrived to the flat, feeding Albus and being sure to put him out in the kennel before releasing a long sigh. After a shower, he decided he would immediately retire to bed.

The sooner this day was over, the better.

**::45::**

The lone Gryffindor found himself wishing that Albus hadn't gone home with Draco. Tutoring was going particularly slow that night, and the impending drama between his two best friends and former rival wasn't something he wanted to keep dwelling on.

It turned out, however, that Harry needn't have dwelled for long. The door burst open and a familiar red-headed man, still in his Auror robes, was nearly purple with rage.

"Where is he?" Ron snapped, barreling straight past niceties, "That pointy-faced little ferret! I'll hex him to Azkaban, right where he belongs!"

Harry opened his mouth, hoping to calm his friend down, but the man cut him off. "Don't you dare defend that git, not over your best friends, Harry," He snarled. The man looked around, his eyes wild. The shorter Gryffindor grew nervous, afraid that if Ron kept on with his screaming, the children would wake up.

It turned out that worrying about that was unnecessary, because Ron soon figured that Malfoy wasn't there. He disappeared, a loud crack echoing through the air.

"Shit," Harry swore, apparating, hoping to catch Ron before he killed his Slytherin flatmate.

Malfoy, on the other hand, who had been in a bad mood already, couldn't have said anything if he wanted to. The moment he answered the door, the ginger-haired man swung at him, his fist connecting solidly with the Slytherin's jaw.

"Ron!" Harry screamed, pulling his friend back in time to prevent him from laying a second strike, "Don't make me have to use my wand!"

The appearance of his friend jarred his focus enough so that Harry could situate himself between the line of fire. "We can sort this out later, Ron. I know you're angry, and you have a right to be, but for Merlin's sake, before this gets worse, _go home." _

The taller man, still burning with rage, stared at his friend, mirroring a sneer Draco thought the Weasel wouldn't have been capable of. He leaned slightly to his side, to glare at his enemy, and then left without a word.

"All sorts of fun reunions today," the silver-eyed man remarked dryly, ignoring the stinging pain on his face.

Harry whirled around, anger marring his features. It was considerably less than his friend's, Draco noted.

"Do you always have to have a retort for everything? Why couldn't you have just ignored Hermione? Why do you constantly have to go around with your pathetic little insults?" Harry snapped, ignoring the surprise that flittered across his counterpart's face.

"It's what I do," Draco said simply, "Did you really think that would change? Your truce doesn't extend to your sidekicks, Potter."

The other man shook his head, scowling. "And you called me the hypocrite," he spat out.

"Look, Potter," it was a heated tone, "Stop dancing around the subject. You're so fond of saying everything _but _what needs to be said. So just what the bloody hell is the issue?"

Draco had always considered himself fairly quick with rebuttals. They weren't always original or witty, but something to hurl back to the other person was almost never an issue for him.

"Hermione _was _pregnant, Malfoy."

But this was not one of those times.

Harry gave him a bitter stare. "She miscarried before the wedding. So there, there's your answer. Knowing you it probably makes you feel even better about yourself," he scoffed.

The thing the blonde _wasn't _good at, however? Apologies.

He was conflicted, part of him was confused at the guilt he was feeling—he wasn't fond of either Granger and Weasley, so why would he feel _bad? _Whilst he was grasping at straws, trying to make sense of the whirlwind of thoughts and the strangeness of it all, he heard Harry scoff.

"Figures," the shorter man muttered, his glare trained on him with intensity. The familiar sound of apparating filled the room immediately after.

And Draco, alone with his thoughts, found nothing but a bleak despair. Listless and at a loss of what else to do, he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. No answers revealed themselves there. Sleep later rescued him, but not before he realized that he truly did feel remorse, and that it didn't mean a damn thing.


	16. Chapter 16

**::46::**

Whilst his late night shifts had been less frequent the longer he worked there, Draco found himself thankful for this one. He and Potter had not managed to have to stand each other's company for very long—the moment the dark-haired man saw even a hint of his silvery-haired counterpart, he would deftly make a detour. Draco would respond in kind.

"Mr. Corvus?" Connor mumbled, finding Draco leaning beside the entryway to the kitchen. It was secluded, just past the farthest end of the corridor. No one used it aside from the House Elves or some of the nighttime staff.

The man crouched down to match the boy's level. "I think it's lights out soon, isn't it? Why aren't you upstairs in the common room with the others?" he asked.

Connors woeful eyes rose to his face, and froze on the purple mark on the man's face. It was striking against his pale skin, fading out to a light pink at the edges. The boy's small hand flew to his face, his index finger trailing down the tender bruise. "What happened?" the panic in his voice was unmistakable.

The blonde had actually forgotten about it until Connor's frightened query. "Oh, nothing for you to worry about, just a little accident," he answered gently, trying to console him.

The little boy stamped his foot, tears rising to his eyes, his lip quivering. "Don't lie! Everyone lies, and I'm tired of it. I'm not a little kid! I'm not!"

The man put a finger on the boy's lips, shushing him. "You're right, I'm sorry. It was a mistake." The words came so easily when talking to Connor. Why was it so hard with everyone else?

"Just tell me the truth," the boy murmured, the threat of tears passing.

"Well, if I do, do you promise to go to bed straightaway after?"

Connor nodded, his gaze serious.

"I said a mean thing," the Slytherin started, "something I shouldn't have said, and the other person was…upset, so he hit me."

"Why didn't you just say sorry?" the boy asked, cocking his head.

"Because grown-ups can be silly, that's why."

He nodded, silent for a moment, musing over the words. "Hitting others is wrong," he said finally, "so you both should say sorry."

"Well," the blonde began, a small smile tilting his lips, "I do think it's time for someone to go to bed."

The younger boy had to concede defeat, knowing that he couldn't change the man's decision. He turned around to head toward the stairs, when he paused.

"Will you be here for storytime tomorrow?" he asked, not turning to look at him, simply just waiting for the answer.

"Yes, I will," came the voice behind him.

The boy's face split out into a grin, though Draco couldn't have seen it. "Good. Harvey doesn't change the voices like you do. He's not very good at it. 'Night, Mr. Corvus!"

**::47::**

Though the boy's advice was the best that there was, it was much easier said than done. His only saving grace was that Malfoy was used to having to push his pride away when necessary. It didn't mean he was any more likely to (truthfully it was probably less so now) but when a five-year-old had to explain to him the obvious answer to his situation, it was clear that his pride was nowhere near intact anyway.

The next morning, the tension in the kitchen was driving Albus to bark at the both of them furiously, as though he too was fed up with their childish antics.

"Potter, put the damned thing outside!" Malfoy snapped.

"You put him out!"

"_Me?"_ the blonde answered incredulously, "What reason could you possibly—"

"You pissed him off." Harry answered snidely, interrupting him.

Malfoy laughed, though it was not of amusement. "Really? You're going act like this is all about the bloody dog?"

The darker haired man simply continued spreading jam on his toast, acting as if he hadn't heard him.

"News flash, Potter!" The blonde growled, stalking over to the seat parallel to where Harry sat. His palms flattened against the wood. "Not everything revolves around you and whomever that may happen to be associated with you, not everyone can read your mind or even care to kiss your arse—"

"This isn't about _me _or them_, _Malfoy!" Harry snapped, ignoring the clatter of the knife he was using as it fell to the floor.

"Then what is it about, Potter, because that's what it seems like! I didn't know, it would have been—"

"If you had known," the Gryffindor's green eyes flickered to the silver ones boring holes in his olive skin, "would it have made a difference? Or would you have simply worded it to twist the knife a _bit _more?"

A low, derisive chuckle tumbled out past pale lips. "You really can't let go of the past, can you, Potter? It's just too hard to accept that everyone else has gone."

Malfoy had meant it to come out harshly, the words like daggers, but instead it came out with soft realization. The raven-haired man looked down at his toast, knowing that his refusal to meet the Slytherin's stare was silent defeat, but the blonde's tone had scared him. It wasn't the Malfoy he knew, it wasn't the Malfoy he _needed. _

"Everyone else has gone," he repeated, "even me. And _that _is what pisses you off, more than me making Granger cry or Weasley attempt murder, more than the fact that I haven't even apologized to your little sidekicks—"

Harry's eyes jolted to his, the intensity of his stare all that he expected but yet it caught him off-guard. "I didn't expect you to apologise. You wouldn't have. There'd be nothing in it for you. That's the only time a Malfoy apologises, isn't it?"

Malfoy found himself thoroughly disturbed by the situation. Never before had he ever encountered what he would. He was going to apologise to Potter—

"Well, Potter, you're wrong. I am…remorseful for my comment. Regardless of our…history, I should have treated her like the potential adoptive parent that she was. Which is why I sent a letter through Owl today on behalf of the centre," It came out business-like and awkward given the nature of the conversation, but it was all he could have managed at the moment; somehow simply saying 'sorry' to Potter was just overshooting the mark.

He might have been awful at relationships, platonic or otherwise, but if there was one relationship he knew how to maintain, it was a business one. His father had made sure of that.

And yet it was possibly the hardest thing he'd had to admit just yet, and he knew Potter was going to be angry at him for it.

"You're sorry?" The other man echoed harshly. The olive-skinned man's face flushed, his eyes reflecting what seemed to be surprise and traces of anger. "Like I'm supposed to believe you're actually going to go and apologize to Hermione _to her face_ without making one insult about her hair or—"

Malfoy swallowed the bitter feeling of being wrong and admitting it down his throat. "Yes, obviously, I'll have to. Get off your high horse, Scarhead. Now, as much as I would love to continue this little tirade, I have to get to work and the next bus leaves in…ten minutes."

"Scarhead is an insult," Potter commented dryly.

The blonde left, muttering, "Obviously no one can be as perfect as you, now can they? Careful not to trip over that ego of yours on the way out, Potter."

**::48::**

Having realized four minutes too late that he was being foolish, the former Gryffindor, being quite non-Gryffindor-like, toyed with the idea of pretending that it all hadn't happened. It was just Malfoy, what did it matter if they never spoke again? So what if he had actually _apologized _for the first time that Harry had ever seen?

It wasn't that special. "It isn't," he muttered aloud, looking at the canine who seemed to think otherwise—Albus stared at him, begging for the bit of toast on the table, but Harry interpreted it to mean that even the dog was arguing with him.

"Bloody hell," he muttered in defeat.

Harry rushed around the flat, ignoring the knife on the floor and the toast Albus was eyeing. The car roared to life, and he ignored the blonde's nonchalance as the man at the wheel waited for his rival to join him. There was a long pause.

Finally Harry said, sighing, "Do you really want to have everyone else see that bruise on your face?"

"What do you care?" The blonde responded, an eyebrow raised.

"I have some bruise-healing paste."

"And I'll just risk my life for an hour with your driving?"

"This kind works faster, it's being released on the market soon, I got a few samples from Oliver."

The blonde looked at him. "How do I know it won't give me a boil or something equally hideous?"

"Like the bruise is much better?" came the response.

Harry rolled his eyes as Malfoy got in, ignoring Albus's attempts to lick his face. The awkwardness of the moment had passed, the taller man distracted by the tube that the other had tossed in his lap.

"Merlin, it looks awful," the blonde commented, staring at the sickly coloured paste on his finger (Oliver said the reason it hadn't been released to the public yet is because it had the unfortunate tendency of looking like pus) "and smells like—is that…"

"Strawberry and vanilla," the Gryffindor confirmed. The blonde shrugged, gingerly applying it to his face as the car was stopped at one of the traffic lights.

"Strange-feeling," he murmured, looking at himself in the mirror.

"Looks fetching on you, Malfoy," Harry joked, "you should consider wearing it every morning."

The blonde just shot him a sardonic look. The bruise was gone before Harry even parked the car.


	17. Chapter 17

**::49::**

"Mr. Corvus!" Madame Hirsch chirped happily, not bothering to remark on the fact that Harry had been following him inside. The darker-haired man, used to his assistant's behaviour by now, thought little of her tittering. It was somewhat amusing, he had to admit, to watch Draco squirm under her inability to take a hint.

"Harvey's called in ill today, and we need someone to watch the little ones—Harry, I know it's your group but I've had to change your shift, so you'll be subbing for the first-years—which is why I need you, Mr. Corvus, to do it." She always managed to pronounce the name lasciviously despite the fact that there were often small children present and combined with the way she flattered her eyelashes, she could presumably scar them more than Voldemort in a dress.

"What?" Both men said in unison, and Harry forgot that he was supposed to be feigning some sort of unfriendliness with the blonde. To keep up appearances, of course—there was no telling what Madame Hirsch might do if she thought they actually got on—

"Well, how about we combine classes with Harry? That way, neither of you will be too overwhelmed! Doesn't that sound wonderful?" Her eyes were positively glittering in the light. Draco wondered if she case some sort of charm on them in some attempt to get her obvious point across.

Harry cleared his throat, staring at the blonde meaningfully, clearly wanting him to decline the offer.

With that, his rival pasted on a winning smile and said, "Sounds brilliant." The silver-haired man turned to look at the Gryffindor who was feigning an equal amount of cheer and said, "After all, who _wouldn't _want to spend more time with Harry Potter?"

Only the man in question knew the sarcasm behind those words.

"Oh, wonderful! Harry, don't you worry, I'll show him what to do," the woman said, eyeing the blonde like she had been waiting for such an opportunity.

"Don't be silly," it wasn't Harry that said those words but yet it suspiciously sounded like his voice, "I can show him around a bit before the kids clamor for a story."

Draco's eyebrows were raised as far as they could, and for the man who exuded an airy nonchalance over everything, it was quite the response.

He must have said it after all. _Bugger, _the green-eyed man thought. Madame Hirsch, looking very disappointed, could still not say no to the man who saved the wizarding world more than once, and had to relent.

The two men walked down the corridor, into the room Harry would be using for the day. It wasn't much different than the other he used, really, but Harvey was more impersonal with his classroom than Harry.

Then again, Harry supposed not very many first-year were really going to be painting pictures.

Harry didn't need to look at the blonde to know the familiar smug expression was there. "She would have snogged the living daylights out of you and left _me _to care for _your _kids, so don't get any ideas."

"I was unaware I had children, Potter. Care to tell me how that occurred?"

He did turn to meet the amused silver gaze staring in his direction that time. "Well, when a mommy and daddy love each other _very _much—"

"—or have had enough firewhiskey, like Goyle's," Draco interjected.

"Thanks, Malfoy, because Goyle's conception is really a subject I want to think about at," he paused to look at his watch, "seven-fifteen in the morning."

The blonde laughed, rolling his eyes. "You really are a prude, Potter,"

Harry ignored the comment. "The first-years are going to be here soon—your group won't be transferred to _your _care, thankfully, until eight."

Draco leaned against one of the desks, his chin propped on one hand. He stared at the savior beneath dark lashes, and Harry found himself wondering how they were so dark when the rest of him was so very pale. Then he realized that was a strange thought to be having.

"Potter," the slender man drawled, "I don't think any answers for how you intend to entertain a group of moody first-years is on my face,"

"Pity, you'd be a bit more useful then," countered Harry lightly, shaking away the embarrassment by going around the large desk at the front of the room and looking for any lesson plans or notes he could find.

Draco accompanied him, apparently unaware of how close their arms were when reaching out to open a drawer. He found a worn leather book. _Private _was etched into the front, but the blonde, clearly either unable to read or simply not caring about the breach of someone else's personal property, opened it to a random page.

His face promptly turned red.

"Mr. Corvus is so very lovely looking, I would adore just to—" Harry read aloud, and stopped abruptly, realizing the words next in line were probably not supposed to be witnessed by innocent ears, "Well, I wouldn't be surprised if she planted that in here for you to find," he finished dryly.

"It has to be some sort of harassment, Potter," the blonde muttered darkly, grabbing at the next notebook in the drawer, "Not everyone wants to be mentally undressed every bloody day by fat old harpy women." He paused his muttering to look through the notebook. "And your remaining professor here is an absolute moron," he said finally, seeming pleased that he managed to get every opinion out without his rival interjecting.

After another moment of silence, the blonde knocked the diary out of the Gryffindor's hands. Harry looked up at him, annoyed. "Seriously, Potter, you might have a fetish for those sort of women but at least have the grace to feign otherwise," he said dryly, "Merlin knows how you manage to survive."

"For your information, I was looking for more things to annoy you with, disgust is just an added bonus." Harry took the notebook from the pale hands, ignoring how soft the alabaster skin seemed.

"Look at that, what even remotely competent professor tries to teach first years how to make a forgetfulness potion without bothering with the basics of a boil-cure?" the blonde man said, seeming horribly offended, "Snape wouldn't have let anyone get away with such a careless mistake."

"He also loved to terrorise his classmates, Malfoy. He's hardly the beacon of a perfect professor," Harry answered dryly, remembering the way the man would dock points from the Gryffindors whilst clearly giving Slytherin the advantage.

"You Gryffindors are just a sensitive lot," the former Slytherin answered, choosing to remember his Godfather in a much different way, "does this place have a potions ingredients store anywhere?""

The shorter man, flipping through the pages of the lesson plan, had to agree with Malfoy that the chronology of the usual professor's lectures was horribly structured and almost random, with no real cohesiveness to what he was teaching. For example, he would teach about werewolves—which weren't a first-year subject to begin with—without much emphasis on how a person could become one in the first place (simply getting bitten or scratched by a person afflicted with the curse, for example, would not cause the victim to become a werewolf—the bite would have to come from the wolf itself).

"No," Harry answered, "Harvey usually brings whatever's needed that day."

The blonde straightened his back tearing a piece of parchment from Madame's "secret" erotica fantasies and looked for a quill—he found one resting in dark ink on the farthest corner of the desk from him. "Potter, give me that quill, will you?"

The Gryffindor was immediately suspicious. "Why?"

"Give it to me and you'll know why." The man countered impatiently, his hand outstretched.

"Say the magic word," Harry said in a tone that should have been reserved only for—well, nothing could really necessitate such a syrupy tone, the blonde reckoned.

"Accio quill?" Draco remarked dryly. The quill was not in his hand.

"Pretty please with sprinkles on top, give me the bloody quill," he finished.

Harry peered over Draco's shoulder as he wrote. The man's penmanship was elegant, but Harry supposed that shouldn't have been surprising.

"Are those potions ingredients? I told you, we don't have—"

"We will, Potter, after you go get them," was the blonde's cool answer—he handed Harry the list.

"Flobberworm Mucus, nettle—" the savior looked at him, a half-smile on his lips, "Malfoy, we're not going to be able to get all this in," his green eyes looked at the watch again, "five minutes, which is all we have before those first-years arrive."

The blonde nodded, feigning thoughtfulness. "You're right," he paused, allowing himself witness the shock that skittered across the other man's face before continuing, "_we _can't—but Harry bloody Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, certainly can,"

Harry clearly did not like this idea, by the scowl that settled on his face.

"I'll keep them busy, Potter, _you _go get the ingredients. Chop-chop, we haven't all day!"

"I'm not doing it, Malfoy. I won't."

Nonchalance worked its way up Draco's face, settling just in time for his shrug. "Okay. If you really have another plan, Potter, then I'll leave it to you."

Harry should have known the only time Malfoy would actually agree with him was when he was trying to get his way. This time the git was actually right, but he'd be damned if he'd say so.

The first years began filing in and he said, leaning in close enough for their arms to brush against each other's, "Hope you know what you're doing, Malfoy,"

"I do," the blonde lied, "Now get your arse out and get the bloody ingredients already."

The truth was, Malfoy knew exactly how to teach a few rowdy first years how to make one of the easiest potions in existence. What he didn't know was what to do with them when the potions were nowhere to be found.

"Harry Potter!" said one very familiar shop owner, "It's good to see you—"

"Sorry, Nev, I can't chat. I just need," Harry gave him the parchment, "about ten counts of tho—no, make it fifteen, each."

Neville stared at him. "Well, okay, Harry, if you say so. Hold on for a moment,"

Harry looked around the shop. It looked like it was doing well. Neville and Ginny took turns managing it. Neville also worked as a herbologist on the side.

"Harry!" a very familiar feminine voice said in surprise, "what are you doing here?"

Ginny looked at him, seeming very…

"You're pregnant? I just saw you at the wedding, how—"

"Charms," she interjected, as if it truly explained everything.

Harry stared at her again. Had the whole world really just kept moving without him?

"Here you go, Harry," Neville said, handing him a box. He saw the same awkward, nervous Neville there, but it wasn't as prevalent as the man standing there was.

"Er, thanks,"

"Harry, I wanted to tell you, I just wasn't—"

"I'm happy for you, Ginny," the shorter man blurted out, and upon the hesitant stare coming from both parties, he emphasized further, "Really. It's great. I'm sure we'll have to get dinner or something and you can get me up to speed but right now I've _really _got to go, so, er, owl me later?"

Neville and his—well, Harry presumed—fiancée smiled. It seemed he had caught them off-guard with his easy acceptance of the news. Well, it couldn't be helped.

Malfoy would hex him if he wasted any more time.

After the telltale _crack _filled the room, Ginny gave Neville a look. "New girlfriend?"

The man nodded, putting one arm around her, "Probably. I haven't seen Harry act so…driven in a while."

"She must be good in bed," Ginny said thoughtfully, ignoring the way Neville's face colored instantly at the comment.

**::50::**

"…and that, children, is why—" The man who introduced himself as Mr. Corvus stopped abruptly in the middle of his explanation of why

Harry's rushed attendance drew all the attention from Malfoy to him. "Er, hello, everyone. Sorry for the wait, I had to go out and get supplies," he handed the box to the blonde, and muttered under his breath, "and see my pregnant ex."

"The female Weasel's pregnant?" Malfoy said, his tone not reflecting any surprise, "well, she is a woman, and most women tend to do that at one point in their lives. Then again, I could've sworn she was as bent as you." The resulting choke made him smirk, and he continued, "Potter, you do realize that there's only six first-years here, not fifteen? You _do _know how to count, don't you?"

The Gryffindor rolled his eyes. "Everyone, we'll be partnering—"

"No, you won't be," the other man interjected, kicking Harry's calf. "Get in a single file line,"

"Ow! You git!"

The class was silent, staring at the two men, uncertain on whose authority they should have followed.

"Are you going to let me teach this, Potter, or will you attempt to? Last time I checked, you weren't stellar at potions," the paler man muttered under his breath.

Harry gave him a glare before realizing that six much younger and impressionable wizards were watching him. His expression changed to one of false cordiality. "Class, whatever Mr. Corvus says, do. Unless he tells you to drink it." He returned the kick, pleased at the blonde's scowl, and whispered, "For the love of Merlin, Malfoy, don't make them drink it. And I am not bent!"

"I'm not as daft as you," he shot back, before straightening and beginning to hand out the supplies. To which this was a response to, Harry was uncertain, but he let it go and went to the room where Malfoy usually started his story for the day, and where the primary students were likely itching to hear.

"There's been a bit of a mix-up," Harry said pleasantly, perching on one of the stools in the room, around where Albus lay dozing, "so I'll be telling you the story,"

The dark-haired man was not blind to the dash of disappointment that flittered through each set of eyes. _Bloody Malfoy. _He smiled, "Well, I'll tell you the story of the boy and the Basil—"

"Mr. Corvus already told us that one," the heavyset girl said, her voice already teetering close to a whinge.

Harry smiled, "Well, first, it's not nice to interrupt each other. But if you don't want to hear that story, I can tell you one about a boy and a Cerebrus,"

"Already heard that one," Connor said, though he was less rude about it.

"The boy and phoenix?"

"That one we just read about." One of the children supplied, bored.

There was a pause. Connor looked up at him, slightly timid. "Mr. Potter, maybe you should just read us a story,"

"Well, I'll just tell you—"

"We've already _heard _it," a curly-haired boy said loudly.

"Not this one," he answered patiently, and then launched into the story of how, on one particularly cold day during Hogsmeade, a certain boy (he described himself in the most favourable of terms, of course, without revealing that it was actually him, and Malfoy as just what he was—a git) had managed to terrorize a hated school bully with an invisibility cloak.

"No, Mr. Corvus told us this one too," the bossy boy supplied, standing up, "just read us a story."

_Unbelievable!_ Harry seethed, that git had gone and _stole _all of his adventures!

Then a genius idea came to him. "You want to visit Mr. Corvus? He's just in the next room. You can watch the first-years make potions,"

With a chorus of agreements, six more students were added into the room where Draco taught.

"—don't you _dare _put that mucus in yet, young man, unless you want boils all over your face!" The blonde warned loudly, pointing at one student in particular. Harry felt a wave of nostalgia. Ir was Snape and Neville all over again.

"Mr. Corvus!" The blonde looked startled by the screeching, and looked at the kids first. His eyes met Harry's gaze second, and in that moment the Gryffindor shrugged.

"Someone stole all my adventures." He said, mirroring the man's nonchalance, "The oddest thing, really, because I don't seem to remember _you _behind me when we found Fluffy,"

"Oh, Potter, get over it. And get them out of here, before one of them loses an eye or something," Malfoy answered, rolling his eyes.

The class was staring at them again.

"I do remember stating to pour the mucus in once the mixture turned green! This is a delicate process, do try to stay on top of things," the blonde supplied, and the class busied themselves.

"Now, out, Potter, I have a class to teach,"

Harry sighed, about to call defeat and read the children the story on how one dragon found his way back to his mother, when Connor, with a tone that could melt even the stoniest of men, asked, "Can't we watch, Mr. Corvus? Please? We'll be good and we won't touch anything!"

Malfoy flinched. "Connor, I really don't—"

"_Please?" _All six children chimed in, mimicking Albus when he wanted table scraps.

He sighed, motioning for them to come in. "If it looks like anything's going to spill, run, for Merlin's sake," he added.

"Heat it again," he said to the class a moment later, "carefully, don't burn yourselves. We're waiting for an orange color—young man," The blonde closed his eyes, gaining whatever small amount of patience he had for a particular strawberry-blonde boy in the front row, "Firstly, what's your name?"

"Dean," the boy answered, somewhat hesitantly.

Funny, Harry thought, the boy reminded him nothing of the Dean he used to know.

"Okay, Dean," Malfoy said, trying not to grind the words out, "I know it seems logical to just throw everything in, but you really have to wait for certain cues."

"Why?"

"Is the fact that it could have your face covered in boils not incentive enough?" he drawled.

The boy didn't skip a beat. "No."

"Mr. Corvus, I can't see," Connor whined.

Draco looked momentarily distracted. "Er, here, let me—" he moved some porcupine quills to the side, "you can sit right up there and watch Dean there. Make sure he doesn't put _anything _else in until I say so, okay?"

Connor seemed pleased by this arrangement, and no doubt reveled in the special attention. The others looked jealous.

When the potion-making process was finally over, Malfoy let out a sigh.

"And now you can follow Mr. Potter, when I am _sure _he'll tell you a very interesting story about the History of Magic," the blonde drawled, giving his rival a pointed stare. He was busy checking the cauldrons whilst the rest of the students filed out, but not enough so that he couldn't smirk about it.

The younger students looked very interested in the cauldrons but Draco was sure not to let one child approach them.

The resulting groans made Harry flinch. "and then you'll be back to see Mr. Corvus after the primary group,"

"Really?" One of the first-years said with more than a hint of excitement.

"For Ancient Runes, that is."

The collective sighs made Mafoy scowl. It was Harry's turn to smirk.

**::51:: **

When lunch came around and the children were eating, one lone Gryffindor wandered his way down to a certain Slytherin's classroom. The blonde saw him in the doorway and rolled his eyes.

"Runes, Potter? Even I grew bored talking about it four minutes in,"

"You stole all my stories," Harry said, not able to keep a smile off his face, "they love you because of _me."_

Harry went over to lean against the wall next to where the blonde man sat.

"They do not!" Malfoy looked offended, "they love me because of my charm and voiceovers!"

"Of my adventures! Just admit it, you've been stalking me since you were ten."

The blonde gave him a sardonic look. "Potter," he said, raising to his feet, "I looked in every bloody crevice of your flat whilst you were gone. You're the most boring man alive. I would have no reason to stalk you."

Harry seemed surprised by that. "Er, you did?"

"Yes. There weren't even _dirty magazines. _I mean, Potter, really, you're the savior of the Wizarding world and could get any bird you wanted, and, what? You're going to hang up your cape over the Girl-Weasel?"

The Gryffindor took that to mean that he _hadn't _found the wand he'd been hiding.

Like Draco's book, it simply stayed hidden. Harry wasn't sure how to bring it up, but he supposed here wasn't the place.

"You owe me lunch,"

Cue sardonic look.

"You made me leave early. Usually I pack lunch."

"Yes, because _you _were being a twat. In reality you're the one who owes me lunch." Malfoy always was too smug with his logic. His counterpart rolled his eyes again, a habit he seemed to have acquired as of late.

"Or—" He was about to suggest, before an interruption.

"How about I take you to lunch, Harry?"

There was an awkward pause. Hermione stood in the doorway, her invitation clearly only for one man in the room.

"Er, that'd…" the savior trailed off for a moment, looking at Malfoy—only a fool would not have known the meaning behind the look that he'd been given—and cleared his throat, "Malfoy has something to say to you."

Hermione stared at him, not intending on making it any easier for him.

"Oh, Potter," the blonde said with slight irritation after leaning in closer, "Really, must you make me do the impossible? Two apologies in one day?"

"Consider it payback for stealing my stories," answered the other.

The Slytherin groaned inwardly, watching the way Granger's eyes were picking up each move he made. _Bloody hell, she'll eat me alive. _

He took the necessary steps closer, and cleared his throat. "So, Granger—"

"It's Mrs. Weasley now. And yes, it actually has a y in it." she responded coolly.

"Mrs. Weasley," Draco tried again, attempting to not sound as if he were grinding every one of his teeth in the process, "I apologise for my conduct last evening and I do hope you would find it in your Gryffindor nature to accept that,"

The woman kept up her intense stare for a moment longer, and then her gaze flickered to Harry's. "I told you he would. _You _owe me lunch."

The blonde's jaw dropped. "You—you bet on me?"

Harry brushed past him, nodding in disappointment. "I was so sure you'd run away."

"We did indeed," Granger said, grinning, "thanks for the free lunch, Malfoy."

The blonde ignored her gratitude. "Run away? What, am I a five year old?"

"She can be scary," the darker-haired man said in defense.

The stare that response garnered just oozed of sarcasm. "You've faced a dark wizard, you moron."

Hermione gave him a look. It looked predatory, like a tiger would go after its prey. "Are you saying I can't be scary, Malfoy?"

_This is why I don't date women, _he thought. "Not at all, Granger."

There was another pause. A collective stare passed.

"Y-You can come with us," Harry blurted out finally. The woman next to him seemed surprised as he was about his impulsive invitation.

Draco wiped at his cheek. "I'll pass, Potter. The dog might accidently get served for lunch," he responded dryly.

As soon as Hermione was in the car, away from Draco's hearing range, she said, "Harry, I have to ask you something."

"Okay," he responded uneasily. Whenever Hermione had to _warn _someone about a question it wasn't usually a good sign.

"Are you…_sleeping _with Draco Malfoy?"

Harry nearly crashed into the lorry in front of him. "Bloody hell, Hermione! Warn a man before you ask something like that! Of course not!"

"You were talking about _lunch _together before I came by," Hermione said, staring at him, "knowing we had plans,"

"To see if he'd want to go with us! God, Hermione, is everyone else that desperate to see me get laid?" He responded, the shrillness of his tone making her wince.

"No," she said hesitantly, "but Ron's got a bet on you and—"

"Ginny's pregnant," Harry supplied as explanation as to why it was a losing bet before she could finish.

"What? Is—Please tell me it's Neville's,"

Harry's voice nearly broke, as he all but shouted out, "Of course it is! Bloody hell, Hermione!"

"I was just making sure!" she responded defensively.

Harry parked into the café parking lot. "Do you have any more questions to ask before my voice returns to normal?" he asked, normal color slowly returning to his face.

Hermione shook her head. "No."

He sighed. "Good, let's get something to eat then."

The woman looked at him. "He was watching your arse the whole way out, though."

She left him shrieking out his last _Bloody hell, Hermione! _in the parking lot. The waiter looked at her curiously. "He'll be okay. Two, please."


	18. Chapter 18

**::53::**

When Harry arrived back from his lunch with Hermione, Draco noticed that his demeanor had changed. The wizard was looking at him strangely, as if trying to figure out what he was doing—except all the blonde was doing was lounging around in one of the chairs in the classroom, which was hardly a difficult concept.

The blonde remarked on this, naturally. "It's called sitting, Potter. I don't know how you've possibly forgotten it, but it is a rather useful skill."

The man in which he had retorted dryly to didn't change his expression, but handed him a bag with the logo of some café. "I brought you back lunch," he said, "since I figured you wouldn't be eating in the dining hall."

The bag exchanged hands. It rustled in the silence as the pale man peered inside. "Is that…what…" he took the sandwich from the bag, peeling one slice of toasted bread to see what else was there, "bacon, lettuce, and a tomato?"

It wasn't a derisive remark, but simply a curious one.

"You've never have a BLT before?" Harry asked, eyebrows raised.

The blonde shook his head, having already taken a bite. He hadn't made any sort of expression that implied that he disliked it, and his olive-skinned counterpart considered this a good thing. What wasn't a good thing, however, was that he found himself staring far too much at Malfoy's lips.

"It's good," he said, distracting Harry from his focus. He seemed not to notice his staring, which was also a positive thing.

Draco, on the other hand, found it awkward that he was the only one eating and that Potter somehow found it polite to gawk at him whilst he ate.

"Must you stare? I don't know what Granger did to make you forget such basic functions for survival, but it's making you seem denser than Crabbe and Goyle combined," he commented, and took another bite.

Dean, the boy Draco had been harping on earlier, seemingly materialized in the doorway, leaving Harry unable to retort back. "Mr. Corvus, there's a fight going on in the dining hall."

Harry wondered if he was simply invisible to everyone when Malfoy happened to be around, because Draco barely spared him a glance as the blonde followed him.

It was the curly-haired boy—The Brat—who was plummeling Conner into the ground. That was all it took for the silver-haired man to leap into action and essentially rip the boy off of the other. The smoldering rage was visible in his eyes, and as he helped Connor up, Harry found himself between the instigator of the fight and Draco himself. He wasn't entirely certain the man would be able to restrain himself from doing something particularly rash to the boy.

"What is the meaning of this?" he spat out harshly, leaning over to the side, the gunmetal eyes meeting the boy's with such intensity that he shrank back.

"Back off," Harry hissed.

"No, I bloody well won't back off, Potter! He doesn't need to be coddled, he needs to explain himself!"

A girl piped up. "He started the fight 'cos he doesn't like not being the leader," she said snottily, as well as pleased to have someone to snipe on, "he thinks he's the only one who should get special treatment from _anyone, _not Connor."

Malfoy barely noticed that the aforementioned boy had grabbed hold of his hand, hiding behind him.

He was silent for a moment, and then met Potter's stare. "You deal with this," he muttered, "I'll take care of Connor."

"Of course you will," the other boy shouted, "you always do!"

"Go on," Harry said, before it got any worse.

The blonde, uncharacteristically compliant, left the dining hall with Connor in tow. Albus, who also seemed to be victim of the invisibility curse whenever Malfoy was around, trailed after them.

The other boy stared up at the saviour, sulky hate in his eyes. A mischievous smile was on his face, however—one that suggested he was far too proud of himself. "I've already fixed things," he said ominously.

Harry attributed it to the scrap that had just occurred and focused on getting everyone back in order. The glint in that boy's eyes, though…when he thought about it, it made him uneasy, and uncertain that the fight was truly what he was talking about.

He decided he would address it later, after they had arrived back to the flat.

"I don't like that child," Draco muttered darkly later in the car, as nighttime had begun to tinge the sky.

Harry looked at him. "He had a point—" the blonde's glare cut him off. The other man sighed and tried to rephrase. "What I mean is, giving Connor what seems to be extra attention might make things worse for him."

"So, what? I should coddle everyone equally?" Draco snapped, irritable from how the day had turned out.

The other man chose not to respond—he was driving a vehicle, after all, and any sort of argument might have distracted him. When they arrived back to flat, and whilst the blonde was storming around making dinner for himself, Harry had decided that enough was enough.

"Look, if you can't manage to at least be fair for Connor's sake, then at least be fair enough to say you don't want the job," Harry flinched at his wording. It sounded all right in his head, but much less so out loud.

Draco's glare could have cut through steel. "That was low, Potter."

The emerald-eyed man had to relent at that. "I'm sorry. It's not like I particularly enjoyed that ending to the day either. So let's just…drop it, all right?"

Some of the anger melted out of the glare digging into his eyes. Draco said nothing about the apology—he didn't seem in the mood for banter—so he gave one of his telltale curt nods as a thanks.

The blonde finished the sandwich he was making. Harry noticed Malfoy hadn't used a single bit of magic, even after the blonde had moved into the flat, and he wondered how long it would take for himself to muster up the courage to ask. Why courage was needed in the first place, he couldn't say—it was just Malfoy. It was just a simple question.

After a moment's thought, Draco handed the plate to Harry. "I'll make another one." He said simply.

_Technically you just made me dinner, _the man thought, trying to hide the blush creeping up his neck, _and technically we're having dinner together. Does that git even know how that could be interpreted. Of course, he's probably—_

"Potter?" Draco asked, staring at him strangely, his own plate in hand, "are you going to stop staring at me anytime soon and eat?"

"Er, yeah," he answered quickly, "Just thinking about tomorrow."

It was a poorly executed lie, but the blonde man let it slide. No conversation followed the end of the meal, and Malfoy never mentioned if he realized that they'd actually had dinner together, and if he had, he didn't seem to show it.

Nighttime had come too soon for Harry. He found himself staring at the ceiling, thinking of the strange turn of events that day, and trying to find some semblance of logic with it all. He didn't have much luck.

He'd never really thought of Malfoy as anyone attractive. The Malfoy he knew at Hogwarts managed to mar any physical attractiveness he would have otherwise noticed.

But this Malfoy, the one who conjured up a potions lessons in moments despite it not even being in his job description—the Malfoy who noticeably softened around the younger kids…

The Malfoy who had made him dinner without an insult or dry retort…

That Malfoy he found attractive, even with the secrets he knew the man was keeping close.

And it scared the hell out of him.

**::54::**

"What is this?" Malfoy asked, still half-asleep, watching Harry rush around the flat. He looked at the clock. He wasn't running late, so why the bloody hell was he acting like a chicken with its head cut off?

"Oh, nothing, really," he answered, the words tumbling out a mile a minute, "I've been cleaning and I even organized the cabinets that I never got around to,"

"And made a full English breakfast?" A raised brow conveyed his suspicion.

"I've had a lot of coffee. I think there's more—"

"No, there isn't," Malfoy remarked dryly, sitting down at the table. He watched Harry continue to rush. It made him tired just watching him. "Potter, sit down and eat your breakfast before it gets cold."

"I already ate," he said, not stopping for a moment, "but go ahead and eat, I'll be taking a shower soon anyway."

Soon was apparently just seconds after, because as soon as Malfoy took one bite of his food, the other man nearly flew out of the room. The blonde just shook his head. He doubted Potter would ever make much sense to him.

Albus looked at him, begging for food. Draco ignored him, finishing it as fast as possible. For some reason it felt awkward being alone whilst Potter was showering.

At that thought, a dark head of tousled hair poked out of the doorway. He saw a glimpse of bare skin, the light catching the droplets of water.

"Shower's all yours," he said, heading to the master bedroom.

The morning was shaping to be an odd one already, and Draco found himself wondering if it was simply going to get odder. He ignored the thought and focused on getting ready as soon as possible, because the less time he had to think about Potter, especially naked Potter, the better.

Much to his chagrin, however, things did not get much easier after they were both dressed and on the way to the centre. If it were even more possible, Potter seemed more on edge than he had previously.

"What's wrong with you today, Potter?" he found himself asking, "Not that it's unusual for something to be wrong with you on a daily basis, but really, this is just a bit overboard."

"Nothing, just too much coffee," Harry answered, with a forced smile.

Draco always knew when it was forced because the smile didn't reach his eyes. How he had managed to figure this out escaped him, and it was also something he ignored, lest it led to more uncomfortable thoughts.

He let Potter get away with his lie again. The blonde found himself disappointed, despite the other man's strange behaviour, to return to his janitorial duties. Part of him had hoped Harvey—the man whom Draco could barely remember despite having seen him around frequently—was still absent.

His luck was not with him that day. The professor—he personally thought the man could barely be referred to as one, but yet that was his position—had apparently arrived early, and with a leery gaze, managed to herd in Connor and his peers for what Draco usually termed his 'procrastination time'. Otherwise known as storytime.

If Potter had noticed, he didn't say anything. In fact, he spent most of the day skittering around like a spider, deftly managing to avoid his taller flatmate.

He tried to corner him at lunch, figuring that Potter would have returned to his usual habit of bringing a meal, but it was obvious that he'd considered this, because before the blonde man could make a stinging retort about the sketchiness of his behaviour, he told Madame that he had a meeting with a potential adopter.

The Gryffindor, touted for such bravery, was acting like a scared little kitten, and Malfoy couldn't find the faintest reason why.

Unless…

Had Potter found out about the book? Maybe he had talked to someone on the Ministry…but it wouldn't have explained his odd behaviour. If the spectacled man had found out about Malfoy possibly holding a Dark Arts artifact, he would have gotten angry, not…the strange, fearful man that he was right now.

Perhaps the book had revealed something to Potter? Something that Malfoy didn't even know? It was a long shot, the blonde knew, but the more he thought about it, the uneasier he became.

"Mr. Corvus," Madame Hirsch called out, without a trace of embarrassment, "have you seen a journal anywhere? It might have been mixed in with your lesson plan yesterday?"

Draco managed a shrug. He was sure it didn't seem the least bit apologetic but he didn't particularly care—he needed to get to Potter's flat and back, preferably before Potter himself. "I'm going out for lunch, I'll be back soon," he told her, strolling outside the building with all the nonchalance he could manage.

Once he was out of the woman's line of vision, he made a mad dash across the street, ignoring the angry honk of a driver somewhere on the road.

What was normally a twenty minute walk took him five minutes, but he had also cut through a few yards. Draco supposed in retrospect that he should have appeared as least suspicious as possible, and running like a madman on the loose _probably _wasn't the best course of action.

He discarded the thought, nearly tripping over the welcome mat as he stumbled into the flat. With the door locked securely behind him, Draco made his way to the dresser where he kept his clothes. In the very back of the last drawer, the book was wrapped in one of his old robes.

His hand grasped at the space there. All he felt was air. Draco froze, all but ripping the drawer out to see if it had simply slipped to the side, or perhaps under the dresser. It wasn't there. He looked in the other drawers, under his bed, and any crevice he could spot whilst inwardly panicking.

"Shit," he whispered, his hands clutching his head, fingers tangled in the silvery hair. "Think, Draco, think. You obviously just misplaced it. Maybe Potter—the bookshelf!"

He rushed to the bookshelf that was by the couch set and the television. Draco looked at each title twice—_D. Malfoy _was not in attendance. He supposed it could have changed the title on its spine to conceal itself, but none of the books had the same etched font that he remembered. His heart sank.

The book was gone. He was consequently and royally screwed.

_Stupid, daft git! _Draco swore to himself for the millionth time, _Why did I ignore it? I should have left it there. Or buried it. Or _something. _Only fools carried around evidence that could steal their freedom!_

He was eyeing everything around him warily as he arrived back. It seemed like it would be impossible to feign that nothing was wrong, and yet he had no choice. Madame Hirsch chirped at him, and he pretended to listen to her rambling about—well, he wasn't sure what she was on about. He just assumed that talking to her would make him seem less suspicious, and having his unscheduled outing less likely to be revealed.

Harvey, the man who apparently now hated him, called for him to clean up a mess in his classroom. It suspiciously looked like the man had the messiest activities scheduled for the day, because he took great pride in watching Draco clean up after him.

To make matters worse, Potter was still acting like Albus during a thunderstorm.

The day was going to take forever to end, and Draco was certain it would not get better.

**::54::**

Harry tried to find a way to stay later at the centre. He even told Harvey he wouldn't expect the man to cover for his shift the next day at tutoring, but to no avail. The Gryffindor was actually going to have to face the blonde he had been avoiding all day.

Really, he had been acting silly for nothing. Sure, Hermione was usually never wrong, and sure he _might _have felt attracted to Malfoy a time or two. But it was nothing, really.

So he decided he'd better act like it.

He greeted Malfoy as he was putting the supplies away. The blonde twitched and looked over his shoulder, jumping when he saw that the spectacled man in which he was currently uneasy around was _right _there.

"Potter!" he shouted abruptly, whirling around, "_what _in Merlin's name are you doing?"

"Er," the green-eyed man looked at him in surprise, "meeting you after work?"

"You've been running around all day like someone's been threatening to hex your balls off!" Malfoy snapped, the cabinet door slamming with the stress he had been withholding for the day, "and now you're as calm as a fucking…I don't even know, but I don't bloody like it!"

He took long strides, outdistancing Harry in moments as he went for fresh air. Fresh air was what he needed, he decided—it would make Potter seem less…

"I actually find Potter threatening right now," he muttered to himself, "Brilliant, this tops off the day wonderfully."

The two men found themselves in an awkward silence as they entered the car. Albus's merry panting, his face between each of them, just made it more obvious.

The silence stretched out until they arrived at the flat, and that was simply because there, nestled between a crowd of what Harry thought were Aurors, was the ruins of what both wizards would refer to as their home.

Somehow the thought that his book couldn't have been the cause of what seemed to have been a _bomb _in Potter's flat did not help Draco in the slightest. He found himself paling, wondering when it had happened. He grabbed the dog's collar, preventing him from leaping out to investigate.

Had he done that? Draco knew he hadn't been able to perform any spells or wandless magic but it was still theoretically possible. The younger kids caused mishaps all the time.

_Get your head on, _the blonde snapped to himself, _you would have heard it. _

"Maybe we took a wrong turn?" Harry suggested hopefully.

"That's your flat, Potter." The blonde answered, not a hint of reassurance to be found in his words.

Ron approached the car, giving a suspicious look to the silver-haired man beside his friend. "What's he doing here?" he said darkly.

"He lives—"

"Lived," Draco corrected automatically, holding onto Albus's collar tighter.

"You know." Harry said, "What happened?"

"Your flat blew up, Potter," the blonde stated dryly, "is it not obvious?"

The ginger-haired man narrowed his eyes at him. "It's interesting that you can be so nonchalant about this, _Malfoy. _You wouldn't happen to have a friend or two interested in a crime like this, now would you?"

Harry knew Malfoy's nonchalance wasn't to be taken seriously—it was one of his frequent masks. He decided that mentioning this to his friend, however, would have raised more brows than it was worth.

"He was with me—well, at the centre—the whole time. There's no way he could have done this." Harry interjected. The rescue didn't register on Malfoy's face, but the dark-haired man knew that he did realize it.

"And so was Potter," the blonde played off the comment with a dry smile, "so you can cross off two people on that list you have, Weasley."

Neither of them mentioned their lunch break. Besides…no one could do such damage and escape unnoticed, could they?

"Hey," a larger man approached them, brushing past Ron pointedly. "Weasley, I told you that you're not on this case. Conflict of interest, remember? Go home."

"We'll be all right," Harry told his friend, and Ron backed off, a moody look in his eyes. He scowled at Malfoy.

"Now, I'm Auror Timmins, I'm officially the head of this case, and trust me, Mr. Potter, I'm going to do all I can to get the bastard that did this."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. So much arse-kissing on a daily basis was irritating to watch, and all he really wanted to do was take a bath and go to bed. Somehow he doubted that would happen.

"Mr. Malfoy," the Auror turned to look at him, "the neighbors placed you at this location for approximately ten minutes. They reported that," he looked down at his notes, "you seemed…anxious."

_Fuck, _Draco thought. He felt Potter's stare on his face, which made him rein in his nonchalant mask even more. "I forgot my wand," he lied.

The green-eyed man's stare intensified at that, and a ripple of confusion crossed Draco's face. What was so odd about that?

The Auror, on the other hand, seemed to buy it for the time being. He knew that he was probably the first and only suspect, but he also knew that there was only so much an Auror could do without evidence.

"We've secured a safe location for you," the Auror finally relented, "There's some necessities there and you'll probably be asked some questions about your whereabouts, that sort of thing." The man stared at Draco again. "All routine, Mr. Potter. The Ministry will help you as much as we can."

Harry noticed the way Malfoy's jaw tightened. He nearly put his hand on the blonde's before realizing that, one, blokes who were friends didn't do that, and two, it would have looked _really _odd to the Auror who seemed intent on proving that Malfoy was the perpetrator.

"Well, if you give us the directions—"

"Oh, no, Mr. Potter. As of tonight your vehicle will be taken as evidence into this investigation. We need to be sure there's nothing…" the Auror glanced at the blonde again, "wrong with it. We'll have some men transport you after they take down some facts from you at the Ministry."

They got out of the car, albeit hesitantly, and Harry motioned to the dashboard, where Malfoy found a leash to restrain Albus with as opposed to his arm. It was growing rather sore.

A gangly-looking man approached them, and looked at his boss in timidity. He looked at Harry and said, "I'm afraid your dog can't accompany—"

It was at this point that the savior, tired of the cordial bullshit and the staring, gave up appearances. "Albus goes wherever we do, or we're not going anywhere."

Draco's ears pricked up at the word _we. _

The Auror gave his henchman a condescending look. Like anyone was really going to argue with Harry Potter about—

"We can't risk the integrity of this investigation, Mr. Potter. We'll take care of your dog. It'll have everything it needs."

"He," Malfoy muttered, his eyes darkening. "Albus isn't a vase."

There was a tense moment. The head Auror had to give in. It was clear that he wasn't very happy about it, but it was also clear that having the biggest case of the year was more important to him.

"I'll arrange for someone to bring you supplies for it, then."

Draco sneered at the man.

Harry realized that was the first time he had seen that telltale Malfoy sneer in a long time.

**::55::**

The night drew on. Draco Malfoy had to call bullshit on the 'routine' line the Auror had fed him—whilst he was certain _Potter _was being treated with the upmost respect possible, it was clear what the two men interviewing them in the small interrogation room.

The questions ranged from what he did that day to what he had done prior to the end of the war—but the Slytherin was clever enough to know that he only had to answer the questions regarding the _current _investigation. He wouldn't be surprised, however, to find that a personal investigation against him was in the works. Since the Ministry had found out he had ties to Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy was suddenly not an insignificant pawn in their larger scheme—the war trials.

"Let him go," the head Auror said finally, poking his head into the room, "Harry's asking for it personally, and we need his cooperation."

The grip on his arm purposely bruised him as he was so very politely 'transported' to the hotel room the Ministry had secured for them. Albus was nosing the floor, intrigued by the new smells. Two Aurors were standing guard outside their door.

Malfoy knew it was all solely for Potter.

Speaking of whom, he was perched on one of the beds, his gaze stern. "I need to talk to you," he said.

Malfoy knew there was no getting out of it. Potter was as stubborn as he was.

"Can't I at least have a shot of Firewhiskey before I deal with _your _interrogation too?" he snapped.

The Gryffindor ignored the comment. "How'd you find your wand?"

Draco looked at him blankly. "That's your big question?"

Potter had the audacity to mimic his curt nod. He scowled at the response.

"It just showed up at my door one day. Someone sent it. I don't know who. What does it matter, Potter?" The man's stare didn't change.

Harry had been confused up to this point. If Malfoy had found his wand in his flat, he had no doubt that the blonde would have gone after him about it.

Which meant that he _didn't _know about it, and that whatever wand he did have wasn't actually his.

"How long have you been unable to use magic?"

The blonde held up his hands, shaking his head. "You don't get to ask all the questions, Potter. Answer mine first."

There was a glint of hesitancy in the Gryffindor's eyes, and he knew that Malfoy had caught it.

"Answer me." He repeated, his toner harsher this time.

"Because, Malfoy," he sighed, meeting the eyes slicing into his own, "I have your wand. Well, _had _it."

Malfoy gaped at him. "What are you on about?"

"We found it in the first sweep of your family's Manor. I took it with me because…well, I don't know why. I just did."

The blonde sneered at him. Harry decided he hadn't missed that sneer when it was directed at him.

"And, what, it conveniently slipped your mind for the two and a half months I've been in its proximity?" Malfoy said, the words icy as his stare.

"I didn't know how to bring it up." He paused, wondering if he should push the blonde on his earlier question. _He's already angry at me. I may as well, _he decided. "How long without magic, Malfoy?"

The resulting stare did not change, and he knew the question was one he didn't want to answer.

"Since the war ended."

Potter tilted his head at him, something strangely Albus-like about it, and said, "Why didn't you tell me?"

The blonde raised a brow. "Would you have, if the situation was reversed?"

Harry had to concur at that. He watched the way tiredness was tingeing the blonde's movements, fueling the irritation and distrust in his features. It made him sorry to have to ask him the next question, because he knew how it would come across.

"What did you go back to the flat for?"

It was Malfoy's turn to look hesitant. He knew as well as Potter did that he was going to be unable to lie.

"Sounds like an accusation, Potter," he spat out, "you may as well say it—don't bother doing me any favours. I know how much you adore your Ministry pals."

Rage rippled through Harry. "I know you're hiding something, Malfoy. I knew it from day one. I knew it whenever you had a trick up your sleeve we were in school, and I know it when I see it now."

"You think I'm here to trick you?" It came out just as harsh as the rage that was colliding between the two men.

"I didn't say that, Malfoy," Harry said between gritted teeth, "but it looks pretty bad for me to try to cover for you and then have it so easily fall apart because _you _won't talk to me."

"I didn't ask you to," Classic Malfoy deflection.

Harry leaned in closer, and their knees were nearly touching. It was in that moment that he realized how close the beds were to each other. It was an unsettling thought, one that caused heat to rise up through his face, but Malfoy attributed it to anger.

"Tell me, Malfoy."

The blonde stared at him tight-lipped.

"Please," It was soft, so light that Malfoy couldn't deny its honesty.

The man groaned, shifting on the bed and collapsing on his back. He stared up at the ceiling.

"That shed out in the field—well, the library? It's locked, but I managed to get in through the window. The books are all blank and I reckon whoever found them figured to be useless. Anyway, I looked at one and—"

Harry first thought Malfoy was simply lying. What other reason did he have not to look at him whilst he talked? His gut said otherwise.

"What shed, Malfoy?"

The blonde sat up, irritation flashing through his face again, as if he thought Harry to be slow and dimwitted. "By the Quidditch field. _That _shed."

"Malfoy," he said, "I know that place like the back of my hand. I've been through every corridor, room, and passageways. There's no shed. I would know otherwise."

The man sneered. "Well, maybe you need better glasses. There's one out there, Potter. The books were enchanted."

Harry decided to not argue the authenticity of whether or not there was an actual shed. "Enchanted how?"

"The books have one person they're designated to," he answered, "They won't work for anyone otherwise. I think that they were for the war. For the Deatheaters. I found a hidden room with that book, Potter, and in it? Everything any injured Deatheater would need. I reckon there's probably people using them as hiding places now."

Potter frowned at him. "Safehouses…for Deatheaters? That would require quite a bit of magic, wouldn't it? The creation of them alone would require skill, not to mention the wards that must be around them."

Malfoy seemed to cooperate more after hearing that Potter believed him. "So you probably just missed it."

The savior shook his head. "I don't think so."

He rolled his eyes. So much for being believed. "So, what? I just made it up."

"No," Potter said, clearly pondering what he had been told, "I think only Deatheaters—" The man stopped abruptly, realizing what he had just said.

Malfoy was wearing his nonchalance again. "I'm not a child, Potter. You think what?"

"What if only the Deatheaters can see or find them? Those ties to Voldemort could have designed it to be so that non-Deatheaters would be repelled from them. Magic could have revealed the locations, so—"

"So they had to make sure magic wasn't a possibility." The blonde finished, surprise escaping his lips.

"What better way to make it impossible than have it cause a reaction?"

"Like an allergic reaction, perhaps?" Malfoy supplied wryly.

It was the sort of strategy that was both offensive and defensive. Even if Harry had managed to kill Voldemort, it wasn't reflective on the dark wizard's strategy skills. The Wizarding Tournament was testament of his ability to be both cunning and smart.

Potter was quiet, absorbing his thoughts. He decided not to voice them just yet. "We'll need your help. You're the only one who's seen it, who knows anything about it. I might be Harry Potter, but I doubt anyone's going to take our theory at face-value."

"Not when I'm involved," Malfoy muttered.

Harry looked at him, knowing the blonde was right, but also knowing that any reassurance would annoy him.

"You're usually denser than a brick, Potter," he drawled, "how on earth did you manage to come up with that? Without Granger and her books, no less?"

"Voldemort was a powerful wizard." He answered simply. It also reminded of horcruxes. If they existed, Harry saw no reason why his theory wouldn't be possible either.

"What if you're wrong, Potter? Are you certain you'd want to take the risk of losing the trust of the entire Wizarding world?"

The man looked at him. The truth was that he wasn't sure about anything. All he was certain of was that he knew Malfoy better than anyone else did.

Albus was dozing off in the corner. Malfoy watched the animal's steady breathing. It was a sign that the tension between them had gone.

"It doesn't explain why your flat is ruined," the blonde said, "nor does it explain the wand."

"I think you should turn it over. It's evidence."

"That's like announcing to the world that I'm guilty, Potter." It was clear Malfoy found that idea to be quite foolish. "Only you can make good and bad suggestions in the same breath,"

"It's not your wand." The man reminded him, "Even you have to see the possible danger behind it. It could have been sent to you to hurt you, or use you."

Malfoy settled back down onto the bed. "Perhaps. I don't think it has anything to do with your flat, Potter. I think it has to do with the powerful people I've managed to piss off."

"Why?" It was such a simple question, and yet it had the most complicated explanation. Draco chose to keep it short, leaving out as many details as possible.

"I was the only one that was allowed to leave before the war ended. My parents…" he trailed off for a moment. "My parents sacrificed themselves and many others to attain the privilege of getting me out alive and especially keeping me out of Azkaban. My father and mother did what they needed to in order to protect me. As far as they're concerned, they were thrown under the bus for my preferential treatment. It was betrayal through and through, Potter. They're hungry for blood."

Potter had nothing to say—no one knew that side of the story. It exonerated him for any war crimes, but it also made him a dead man walking. With his inability to use magic, he wondered how Malfoy had managed to survive at all. He would have been such easy prey.

He also knew that his personal ties with Malfoy for the last two months was likely what had saved him. Harry Potter had saved Draco Malfoy without knowing.

It made him glad.

It also made him realize that he would protect the man at any cost—Harry thought he'd never forgive him or stop hating him. Never thought he'd see him again unless it was an announcement for his arrest or at a trial.

It was in that moment that Harry Potter realized that he had fallen in love with Draco Malfoy, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.

…..

_Note: I did not intend for this chapter to be so long, though I felt I would have broken its fluidity had I cut it into smaller pieces. Hopefully it's not too cumbersome to read, but let me know if splitting this would be more reader-friendly._

_If there's something that seems like a plothole or simply something that seems out of place, please let me know! I would be more than happy to alter things to make this story the best it can be._

_Thank you for all your reviews so far, and I hope that you've enjoyed all its latest installments. _

_Best,_

_B._


	19. Chapter 19

**::56::**

Even after his personal revelation, Harry had trouble believing himself. It was _Malfoy. _It made little sense to him—they still argued all the time, the tension in the room whenever he was around increased, which he doubted was very good for his blood pressure—so why in the world had he fallen for _that? _The man shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do was deal with something he couldn't hex away—so he would do what he did best. Pretend it didn't exist.

Of course, once he had made that decision, who better to come along and ruin it?

"You know," Malfoy drawled, flipping at the channels on the television in front of him, "if you didn't know about the book, then _what _in Merlin's sake were you so jumpy about earlier today?"

The man froze, peering at him behind his glasses like a startled cat. Malfoy wondered why he hadn't gone and just gotten his eyes fixed.

"I told you—"

"Do _not," _the blonde interjected dryly, turning to look at him, "tell me that it was the coffee. The pot was dry. There was no way you'd made coffee this morning."

"I could have used magic," the other man muttered defensively, "and it's really not very important compared to the ordeal that we're in for, so forget about it."

Whenever someone told Draco Malfoy to forget about something, it made him that much more likely to do the opposite.

"No, no, that's not how the game works." he said, a smirk playing on his lips, his silver eyes considerably lightened after their previous conversation. He turned to the narrow space between the two beds, ignoring the brush of Potter's knees against his.

The dark-haired man flinched.

Draco raised a brow, at first thinking he had said something offensive, but realizing…he moved his knee again.

"Stop," Harry muttered, rising to his feet and turning to step away.

The blonde brushed one pale finger against the olive-skinned hand that dangled in front of him.

Malfoy noticed the tension that rose in Potter's neck as he froze again. The blonde, muffling a soft chuckle behind his lips, said nothing. _Imagine that, _he thought, _Harry bloody Potter fancies me. _

How he hadn't seen it before—well, he had, but had completely misinterpreted everything.

"Malfoy," Potter hissed, "I said _stop." _

"I know," he answered lightly, and dragged his knuckle against his hand again, the man's response the same. Oh, it delighted him to watch Potter squirm!

Harry's eyes, no longer avoiding the amused stare Draco was giving him, flashed with anger. "Do you have to be such a git, Malfoy?"

The blonde looked at him, raising a brow. "You know, there's a whole room here." His hand rose again. "And yet…" the man drawled, dragging it across the man's skin, "you choose to stay."

"For Merlin's sake," Potter snarled, tearing his hand away, "all you had to do was stop."

The blonde smirked, about to open his mouth to retort but Harry swooped down, cupping his hands around his jawline, pulling him roughly toward his own lips.

_Oh, _the blonde thought, amusement still bubbling up inside him, _he is rather good at this. _

The air that greeted his skin after the other man had pulled away was cold. "Shit," he heard Potter swear, "I'm sorry."

"Hm." It was a noncommittal sound, something that suggested neither good or bad, and yet Harry interpreted it as a reason to step away.

Draco stood, his hand firmly around the other man's wrist, his nose close to brushing against the scar on his forehead. His body was close; Harry snaked one hand around his waist.

He tilted his head down, and now their lips were mere inches apart—he saw the way Harry's eyes raged, felt the tension in the hand that rested on his hip—and Draco had the nerve to _smirk_ at him like he were winning some sort of game.

The Gryffindor released the slender man from his grip, stepping back.

_Oh, we're not dancing, Potter. _Malfoy thought darkly, pushing him to the wall.

"Do you know what you're doing?" Harry asked, his eyes trained on the lips so very close to his own.

"Shut up, Potter." Malfoy muttered, not making another move.

He laughed. "Scared, Malfoy?"

The blonde smiled, meeting his eyes. "You wish." He curled one hand around Potter's neck, pulling him closer.

Their lips met again.

Harry pushed back against him, the mattress making a small sound of resentment as Malfoy leaned against it. Harry pushed again, and the blonde, both hands on either of the savior's shoulders, turned.

"We could do this all night," he said, as Potter moved to right himself around.

The green eyes that were so often angry, looked different, Malfoy noted, when he smiled. "We could," the man said, his breath warming the pale skin in front of him. The smooth buttons of the Slytherin's shirt felt warm to his fingertips as he began to undo them, and the hands of the other worked in tandem on his own clothing.

Draco's shirt, pushed away by Harry's exploring hands, fell to his feet. His fingertips were tracing the scars there. The dress shirt hung off of Harry, managing to cling to him by the few buttons that the blonde had yet to undo.

He felt the belt of his trousers being undone.

"Potter?"

Harry froze, thinking he had done something wrong.

"Whilst I am all for remedying the raging hard-on I've got," the blonde said dryly, his gaze past Harry's face, "I don't exactly want an audience."

"Hm?" Harry turned, meeting the adoring gaze of Albus, who clearly did not know what the two men were up to. "Oh, yes, that's a bit…"

There was a silence that passed, Harry's hands on the waist of the slimmer man, his thumbs brushing against his skin. He watched Draco's eyes fix on the doorway to the bath.

"It's small," he said, and Potter pounced on the vagueness of his comment.

"I think I should be the judge of that." He said cheekily.

His slate-grey eyes narrowed, a scowl on his lips. Harry kissed it away.

"Up for a shower, then?"

"Best suggestion you've had all night, Potter," Malfoy answered, "but don't you dare think I've forgotten your comment, you cheeky bastard,"

Harry leaned in, the whisper hot against his ear, his hand purposely trailing down to brush the front of his trousers. _"I should make you forget then, hm?"_

The blonde led him to the other room. The door shut, the lock clicking behind them.

Potter began tugging at his trousers again. Malfoy tore off the shirt, ignoring the buttons that clinked against the tile.

"That was expensive!"

Malfoy cut off his rant by kissing him, and he decided that he really quite enjoyed this new, and frankly, very effective way of shutting the man up. Almost more than Potter's hands, which were causing some very pleasurable sensations to rush through him.

Then the dog began to howl.

"Mr. Potter?" The main door to the hotel slammed open, the voices of one of the Aurors entering the room.

"For Merlin's sake," the blonde said irritably, "why couldn't you have gotten a fish?"

Harry grabbed his shirt, and paused for a moment. "A fish," he said, buttoning it, "would not have fetched you."

Draco was about to respond, with something sardonic no doubt, when the voice was louder this time.

"Mr. Potter!"

"For Merlin's sake, we're both in here!" The Slytherin shouted irritably, undoing the lock. The door swung open, and Albus jumped at them both, clearly pleased he had gotten his way.

The two Aurors stared at him, embarrassment reddening their cheeks.

"Do you want to join in?" Malfoy asked dryly. That seemed to scare them into leaving. "Tell anyone and your ability to reproduce will become nonexistent!" he called after them.

Harry shook his head. "That could have been interpreted in _so _many ways."

"None of which," Draco glared at the dog nudging at his hand, "I will be able to experience."

He sighed, staring at Harry for a moment, and then upon realizing that nothing was going to happen that night, he leaned down and picked up his discarded shirt.

"Couldn't have gotten a cat?" he continued, ignoring the eye-roll in response to the question, "or a plant?"

**::58::**

There was a knock on the door that interrupted the Slytherin's sulking.

"Harry, it's Ron,"

"And the weasel is here!" Malfoy answered in his typical dry fashion, slumping to collapse on the bed.

The ginger-haired man glared at him. Jerking his head at the two men that closed the door behind him, Ron asked Harry, "They're acting strange. Did something happen?"

"No," the blonde answered irritably, "and it's all _his _fault, he had to get a bloody _dog._"

"Sorry you have to room with him," Ron said, clearly not caring about what the Slytherin man said for having missed such a glaring hint, "I thought for sure you'd get the first class suite and him…well, a cell in Azkaban would be nice."

"Ron," Harry said sharply, and his friend rose his eyebrows at the tone, "he didn't do anything,"

"But I wanted to," the blonde interjected sulkily, secretly enjoying how dense Weasley was. It made Potter flush, and the other man was too blind to see it wasn't anger that caused it.

Harry shot him a look of warning, and Draco just looked smug.

"So do you have any ideas on what happened?" Ron asked, "Off the record, of course."

"Yes, actually," Harry said, just as the blonde said "Not at all,"

The man stared at them suspiciously. "Is he...there's not a curse on you or anything, is there, Harry?"

The Gryffindor shook his head. "No, of course not, Ron. It's a bit complicated."

"Just tell him," Malfoy muttered, realizing there was no point in trying to keep one of the nosiest men of Hogwarts out of his business.

Albus began to whine.

"Er, Malfoy, can you take him out? He probably needs to be walked."

Oh, this night was shaping up to be better and better. "Yes, gladly, Potter." He snapped, grabbing the leash.

_Kicked out right with the bloody dog, _Malfoy glowered, _Might as well put a 'do not disturb' sign up. _

Ron watched the blonde leave. "There. He's gone. You can tell me whatever it is he did now and—"

"Ron!" Harry snapped, "He's not the enemy anymore. If you want to help, you're going to have to put your differences with Malfoy aside."

"Why?"

"Because we need his help."

Red creeped up the Auror's face—anything to do with Deatheaters had that effect, but Malfoy was a special case. "What could that git possibly—"

"There's a—a shed or a library, out by the Quidditch field of the centre." Harry interrupted his rant impatiently.

Ron furrowed his brows. "That's strange, I don't remember ever seeing one."

"It's a safehouse—or, a…connection to safehouses. Safehouses with wards only Merlin knows about, and only Malfoy can find them."

The Auror's face filled with disbelief. "Have you gone mad? This is Malfoy we're talking about! If he can find them, you can bet it's some sort of trap, and for it to be around—"

"Ron," the savior said, his impatience moving toward anger, "Do you trust me or not?"

His friend looked even more confused and appalled. "Of course I do, mate! It's Malfoy—"

"I trust him."

When Harry Potter, his best friend, confidant—hell, adopted brother— had said that, it seemed like he was suddenly a stranger to Ron.

"Harry," he said, absolutely blindsided. He was certain something had happened, there was no way that his best friend was actually siding with Draco Malfoy. He fumbled around with a flask he kept in his breast pocket. It was Veritaserum, and he was planning on giving it to Malfoy, but…

"Give it to me." Upon seeing the look on his friends face he rolled his eyes. "I know you have Veritaserum with you, you always bring an emergency store with you everywhere you go."

Ron shook his head. "No, I believe you."

The dark-haired man looked at him. "You do?"

"You wouldn't have asked for Veritaserum otherwise and no one else knows I have it besides you." He said.

"Thanks, Ron." Harry sighed.

"Tell me more about the…the safehouses."

**::59::**

The night sky was speckled with stars, and a half-moon peeked through a few clouds. It was a cold night, one that suggested Autumn was on its way. He wondered if the first-years at the centre would be able to go to a proper wizarding school.

The schools available seemed hesitant to take in the…leftovers of the war.

"Excuse me, Mr. Malfoy," said one of the young-looking Aurors who had been posted as security detail outside their door, "We can't allow you to go on your own, one of us has to escort you."

The man rolled his eyes. "Very well. Here, hold this, you can pick up his mess."

Albus snapped around, barking and growling, ears pinned back. Malfoy dropped the leash, and the hand of the Auror dug into his arm. A loud scream pierced his ears as the world around him turned into a tornado.


	20. Chapter 20

**::60::**

Harry, in the middle of explanations with Ron, paused when he heard barking. _Odd, that sounds like Albus. _He ran to the window, and before he could get his wand out, the dog and his silver-haired attendant were gone.

"They're gone."

Ron's eyes bulged out. "Malfoy stole your dog? Again?"

"No, no, Malfoy can't—" Harry ran to the doorway. The Aurors were gone. "Where are the Aurors?"

"I sent them off to have a break when I arrived." His friend responding, looking extremely puzzled. "What's wrong? Albus will be okay, I'll get the Ministry on it—"

Ice rushed through his veins. "You did what? You had no right—shit." The savior kicked the wall, repeating, "Shit."

_Think, _Harry told himself, _think. You have to know where they'd take him. _

"Harry, _what's _wrong?" The Auror beside him asked, louder this time, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Malfoy can't fucking apparate, Ron, that's what's wrong! You let me send him out there—" he ignored the way his voice sounded, which wasn't of a man who had merely formed a tolerance for a work partner, "He has no way to protect himself. No wand, no magic, _nothing. _And you let me send him out there defenseless."

"If it was a Deatheater, he'd be fine—"

At that suggestion Harry exploded, _"No, no, it would not be fine, Ron! Every Deatheater alive wants him dead!"_

_So, not a lot people seem to want him _alive _these days, _Ron thought, wondering how he'd managed to survive.

The man pressed his lips in a thin line. He had made the biggest mistake of his career—but worse, it had hurt Harry.

"I'll bring you to the Ministry," Ron said, ignoring his personal dilemma, "I know someone who can help."

"Who?"

"Blaise Zabini," he answered, not fazed by the look Harry had given him, "I know the word is that he's been given The Kiss, but he struck a deal, I'd been against it but—well, he'll be able to help."

Harry's heart sank. There was no way Blaise Zabini would help Malfoy unless…

"You can't tell him it's Malfoy."

The ginger-haired man furrowed his brows. Harry and his rival were keeping quite a few secrets between each other, it seemed. "Why, for Merlin's sake? They were friends, weren't they?"

"It's a long story. _Don't _tell him. When you put the word out, tell them it was…"

The savior paused. Who would they abandon their current case for?

"Me."

Even Ron wasn't dense enough to think that could possibly work. "You wouldn't be able to go to the Ministry and we don't have the time to go get a Polyjuice potion, and the Ministry's pretty tight lately, they've been testing—"

"All right," Harry snapped, "then who? Who else would they push forth their best Aurors for?"

"Well, Malfoy."

The green-eyed man rubbed his scar in irritation, mostly out of habit—some people squeezed the bridges of their noses when stressed, he rubbed his scar.

"You have no idea how many people want a solid case against Malfoy," Ron explained, "Hell, just stealing Albus would put them into a frenzy."

"You're joking," Harry answered flatly, "I think we need something better than that."

Ron smiled mischievously. This he could do. "Oh, I think an Auror's wife should do it,"

Harry nodded. "It could work, if you get Hermione _and _Crabbe and Goyle: Auror versions in on it."

His friend agreed. "Just leave them up to me. Get ready to leave, I'll have them bring you to the Ministry after a little…scare tactic." He strode out of his room, meeting the two Aurors who had just returned—one was still munching on chips, the other was eating crisps—and unleashed a fury that Harry was unaware could be feigned.

"_What do you think you're doing?" _Ron snarled at the top of his lungs, a vein pulsing dangerously on his forehead, _"Leaving your security detail could leave you both in the gutter!"_

"B-but," one of the aurors tried meekly.

A deadly stare shut him up. _"My wife is missing because _you _left your posts. I need you to go and report that."_

"We—we didn't see her, sir—"

"_You did. You're going to tell them that you saw Draco Malfoy petrify Hermione Weasley and take her as hostage."_

It was said with enough venom that the two Aurors couldn't muster up the courage to argue. They looked at Harry. He looked restless.

"I'm going with you. I saw everything," he explained, "we need to talk to Blaise Zabini."

"Blasé is high-profile, sir—" the Auror with the crisps began.

"He's Harry Potter," his partner hissed, jabbing him in the abdomen. The wizard ignored the gawking eyes and looked at his furious friend. "Ron," he said, looking at him with gratefulness, "thank you."

The ginger-haired man, suddenly much calmer, nodded. "He's still a git, but there has to be a good reason for you to trust him."

Harry chose not to answer why—had he tried, it would have been lost in the process of apparating.

**::61::**

"Oh, _Dray," _Pansy cooed out, in that sneering, mocking way she had perfected over her years at Hogwarts, "Did you really think I wouldn't get to you sooner or later?"

The man looked around. Nothing about his surroundings was particularly familiar. He didn't want to look around too much, however. Pansy liked her attention.

"You let me go more than once," he said lightly. The magical binds that kept him in place were ones he knew better than to contest—the more a prisoner fought, the more pain occurred. Draco had been in these binds once before.

The girl smiled, the bitter sort of smile that brought out the glittering cruelty that always showed in her eyes. "We've had eyes on you from day one, Draco."

He raised one silver brow. "So why not Avada me right in the street? Save yourself all the trouble of this," he gestured to the area he was in. It seemed like the middle of nowhere, the kind of place you wouldn't want to end up in if your car was on its last legs.

"You know," the woman said, twirling her wand seemingly absent-mindedly, the searing pain increasing. She knew his tolerance for that particular curse had grown stronger. "There's a lot of things rich Deatheaters hate,"

The pain was burning across his skin, soon it would seep past. "Losing their money," The woman just smiled at the sound that tumbled past his lips. She twirled her wand again.

"Losing their things," It ripped into his muscles, triggering spasms that felt like knives digging into him, being dragged back and forth.

He screamed, and this pleased her, so she continued, "Losing their status, but what they really, really hate?" she paused, laughing at herself, "Oh, I nearly forgot Harry Potter." Her eyes danced at the way the magical binds glowed around him as she increased the torture.

She twisted her hand as she waved the thought away, "Aside from Harry Potter—did you fuck him, by the way? I had a bet with a few people."

Draco laughed. It came out weak, tensing as the spasms rippled through again. "No, I didn't, Pansy."

She shrugged. "Pity. Well, like I was saying—the one thing Deatheaters hate above all else?" Her tone changed to something petulant, "Betrayal, Draco. They _really _don't like that. Especially when _everyone _else dies or gets The Kiss and _you _get to roam free."

"You keep saying _they," _he forced out, ignoring the pain in his voice, "but all I see is you, Pansy."

The woman giggled again. Her likeness to Bellatrix was nearly identical. "Oh, Dray. That's just because we're _early. _They'll be here soon."

She looked back at the sound of a familiar _crack _in the air. "Oh! Look, here's someone. I think you've met."

Draco tried to roll his eyes. The spasm kept him from executing it as well as he liked. "It figures, no one is that awful at describing a blowjob unless they've never partook."

Madame Hirsch's lips deepened into a snarl. "How dare you!" She ripped out her wand, but Pansy stopped her.

"We have to wait for the others. We can't kill him without letting everyone else have their turn."

"You've had enough turns, then," the bigger woman shouted, pulling away.

Draco's head jerked to the right. In the corner of his eye he saw the corpse of Albus, Potter's dog. _Stupid dog, _he thought, still feeling a tenderness toward him, _he should have run away like he did with that cat._

"Fine, you can take a turn, but don't twist it too much!"

He felt his bones crunch and soon actual thought was impossible—all his mind centered on was trying to get away from the pain, trying to isolate the point of origin.

**::62::**

"Well, I don't see why he'd take the Mud—" Zabini paused, ignoring the furious glare shot his way, "_Granger _to the centre. There's nothing there."

"Oh, sod it, Zabini," Harry snapped, fed up with the way the rest of the Aurors in the room took him at his word, "I know about the fucking safehouses, okay? I know there's one there."

The dark-skinned man froze, his eyes narrowing. He wisely admitted nothing out loud, but his demeanor told Harry all he needed to know.

The other men around him began chattering loudly.

"Look, everyone," Harry said trying to calm them down, "I need to speak to Mr. Zabini alone."

The head Auror—Timmins or whatever his name had been—voiced his disagreement immediately. "We can't allow that, Mr. Potter. Blaise Zabini is one of our material witnesses, his safety must be assured."

The man smiled, channeling the sort of charm Malfoy would use, "Look, he's with me. I'm pretty sure he'll be safe."

"But you're best friends with Granger," the Slytherin argued, "Surely it's…it's…"

"I saved the world a bunch of times, Zabini, and once from you," he reminded the room, the smile not wavering.

Malfoy would have hated to see Harry use his reputation like that. Of course, Malfoy _was _the reason he was using his reputation in the way that he was…Funny how that worked.

"It'll be all right," Timmins finally relented, deciding that the cooperation of Harry Potter for the case—and his resulting promotion—was more important, "let's give them some privacy."

The moment the door behind them creaked shut, Zabini let out a loud laugh. "Oh, rich, Potter. You've been working with a Deatheater," he said, ignoring the snarl on the other man's face, "and I can just guess which one."

Potter seethed, pushing the man to the wall.

Blaise laughed again. What _was _it with Slytherins and laughing at threat? Harry wondered in passing irritation, remembering how Malfoy would do the same.

"Malfoy hasn't kidnapped Granger. I knew it from the start—there's no way he could have, not with the eyes on him, from both sides."

"Zabini," Harry hissed, wrapping a hand around his throat, "if I requested it right now, I could get your pretty little face up close and _very _personal with a Dementor," his hand tightened, "if you have any desire to live, you'll tell me where Malfoy is, _right _now."

The laughter on Zabini's face disappeared at the mention of a Dementor. His deal had come at a high price, and Harry had no doubt that if he ever walked outside the Ministry walls again, the Deatheaters would act as he, too, had committed treason.

"I really don't know, Potter," he said, coughing at the hand around his throat, "Every place on the map—it's been swept clean, no Deatheater could ever return there without getting sent here."

Harry growled, "You're lying, Zabini. What about the safehouses?"

"Those were in production with some of the higher-ups, I didn't hear much about it, but—"

The man released the prisoner, "But?"

"It's like a network. There's a main gateway somewhere, and portkeys from one underground to the next. The main thing is that to access it, you need to get past the wards that protect it. I don't know they managed to make it so specialised, but supposedly only Deatheaters were supposed to be able to get past. I know there's a secondary portkey, the ones that show where the closest one is, and then there's some more wards and traps to get past. The traps differ from location to location."

The Gryffindor scowled, "That's not good enough. Where would they take a man a _lot _of people would want a piece of?"

"Not to one of the safehouses," Zabini answered, "There wasn't one large enough for that amount of people."

Potter felt himself growing impatient. "So where, then?"

The Slytherin tensed. "If they wanted to take him somewhere where all the Deatheaters in hiding were—the ones in the safehouses, they'd take him to the main gateway. That way everyone could portkey in." Zabini paused. "There's no way you could find it, Potter. It's untouchable."

"I just have to find it?" Harry asked harshly, "what about the wards? The security?"

Zabini shrugged. "You could find it, Potter. It'd be somewhere no one would look at and think twice about. A needle in a haystack."

Harry punched the wall beside the man. Damage to their precious witness would not occur today.

The man smirked. "Good luck, Potter."

**::63::**

Some people he recognized. Some he didn't.

It sort of looked like lightning bugs flashing in front of him. Each time a person appeared, there was a flash of light. He remembered when he used to collect them in the summers on holiday to whatever country they had gone that month. He couldn't remember where. It all ended up as a blur at one point.

"The bid starts at a hundred thousand," Pansy shouted gaily, "but I know you have more than that."

No wonder Pansy had wanted to keep him. He was worth the money she had lost at the end of the War. Most families had savings offshore, but the Parkinsons were less wise. She always had loved her clothes.

He wondered how long it would take for him to die. The killing curse was just the merciful part of the whole process.

At the other end of the world, Harry Potter was banging his head against a wall in Ron's house. The Auror was shouting out random places like _Singapore! Hawaii! _but it wasn't getting them anywhere.

Hermione was looking through a book. _Bless them both,_ Harry thought, but he knew they weren't going to find Malfoy here.

"Harry," Hermione said, rushing in, "You said Albus went with him? You're positive he didn't run off?"

"Yes, Albus had been taken with them." Harry said, and looked for the book in her hand to figure out her line of thinking, except there wasn't one.

"Did the shelter microchip him when they found him again?" She asked, "Luna was working on this project where microchips gave the owner coordinates when—"

The exultant laugh from Harry gave her the answer. Relief flooded through him until she uttered the next line.

"We'll need to go to the shelter and have them pull up the file, but it's…five am on a Sunday."

Harry said, "I'll break the door down. I know where the files are kept."

The woman pursed her lips. "What if there's an alarm?"

"That's what you two are for," he answered.

The sounds of barking in the darkened corridor of the shelter didn't deter Harry from marching straight down into the small office he'd been to. He thumbed through the files, looking for _H. Potter, _but couldn't find a mention.

The name _D. Malfoy_ caught his eye, however, and he pulled it out of the drawer, searching down to find the ID number.

"I found it!" Harry called back to his friends. He met them halfway, showing him the file.

Harry looked at Ron. The man gave him a slight nod, taking his wife's hand, giving it a squeeze before releasing it again. "Be careful, Harry. I'll have all the available Aurors behind you soon." The man disappeared, true to his word.

Looking at Hermione, he said, "You're sure this is going to work?"

The woman looked hesitant. "Well, no, Harry, but it's the best we've got." She handed him a broom—it wasn't the newest _Firebolt, _but it would do.

He just hoped he would arrive in time.


	21. Chapter 21

**::64::**

"Fifty—" Pansy's voice, more than just slightly tinged with maniacal greed, was cut short by the light that exploded above her. She looked up, squinting at the bright light above, then at its origin.

Draco was too exhausted to really notice. The physical torture may had paused for the time being, but what wounds it had left behind still overwhelmed him.

"Did the dog actually explode?" the woman turned, seeing that the animal's still body was still intact, and looked at the glittering fire above her. It seemed like something from a flagrate spell. "Zero-seven-three—" she narrowed her eyes at the crowd before her, "This is foolish! Which one of you did this?"

_073180-060580 _was in the sky, a stream of numbers that seemed meaningless—glowing from above where Albus lay.

"_Protego!" _

Pansy's face paled. "It can't be." She murmured, holding her wand up.

There, floating in the sky amongst the fading numbers, was Harry Potter.

Panic filled the area soon after, Deatheaters going as far as running over one another to reach their portkeys.

The woman rose her hand, shouting, "Crucio!"

Harry dodged it, the wind whipping through his hair as he rolled to dodge the spell. It was a madhouse. The sheer _amount of _people there caught him by surprise, and the spell Pansy had unleashed hit one of them.

His eyes caught the silver sheen of Draco's hair, where he had crumpled to the ground after distracting the woman holding him there. Harry wasn't certain how well a simple protection spell would hold up against Pansy—he needed to be sure to keep her attention on him.

The broom below him began to shake, and he froze, turning around to see that someone had hit it with a Reductor curse. The ground was unforgiving, knocking the wind out of him; his glasses lay crushed beneath him, and Harry thought, _I really should have gotten around to fixing them like Hermione told me to. _

It wasn't like he was _expecting _to end up in another battle—but would later admit to himself that retrospect could be a cold-hearted bastard.

"Oh, Potter," Pansy sighed, her smile so very similar to Bellatrix on the night of the fire at the Weasleys', "_So _glad you could make it." She aimed her wand, about to murmur the killing curse.

He heard Ron's voice in the sky above him. _"Expelliarmus!"_

Pansy sneered, turning to the sky; Aurors surrounded her. She barreled past Harry, deciding that his death was not worth her freedom, jumping toward what he could only assume to be a portkey.

Except it didn't take her anywhere.

_Who was the fool, _she thought darkly, snarling as she fought the binds, _that chose rocks, of all bloody things, to be portkeys in the desert?_

Ropes coiled around her, and Harry heard the chattering above his head as more Aurors dived in—they'd only managed to capture three other Deatheaters, most had portkeyed moments after Harry's arrival.

The dark-haired man grabbed his glasses, repairing them as well as a half-blind and impatient man could. He saw Albus.

Ron rushed over to him, shouting something, but Harry barely heard it.

He'd barely noticed it himself, but suddenly he was there, running his hand through the dog's fur, knowing there would be no response. Hermione sought him out.

"Harry," she said, kneeling next to him, a hand on his shoulder, "I'll take care of him, okay?"

"I can't leave him—"

"Malfoy needs you, too," she reminded him gently, "I'll be right here with him, Harry. I won't let anyone do anything, I promise."

He looked at her, as if he was uncertain, but turned toward Malfoy. He was unconscious; the other man leaned in close, his hand on his chest. He was still breathing. Harry thought about bringing him out of it, but he was hardly a qualified healer, and he knew nothing about the extent of his injuries.

"Take him to Mungo's," Ron shouted, to someone behind him.

The Mediwizard who transported them made some sort of comment about him being Harry Potter and how good it was that he'd been there to help them.

St. Mungo's was hardly his favorite place. A healer tried to stop him from accompanying Malfoy and Harry heard himself say, "I'm going with him."

Hearing his voice somehow made things more real to him. There was a rush of emotion that flooded through him, making him lift up his hand and take Malfoy's, despite whoever might have seen.

Michael Corner, a Ravenclaw from Hogwarts, had become a Healer. Harry remembered being surprised at the news, since he'd noticed that the man seemed to have an affinity for brewing potions—he was in Slughorn's advanced potions class.

"Keeping watch on him for the Ministry?" the healer asked, looking and taking note of the injuries he could see.

The Gryffindor stared at him blankly, and then remembered where he was and, more importantly, whom the Healer was referring to. He straightened up.

"Not for the Ministry," he answered simply, "how soon will you know everything?"

The healer looked up from his patient. "Not sure. I'll work as fast as I can, Harry."

Harry kept himself from saying that it wasn't fast enough.

**::65::**

"He has extensive muscle damage, bone damage," Healer Corner began, taking a breath to read off the rest of the list, "contusions and possible lung and heart damage. He sustained some head injury as well, but I think his brain will be okay. The rest of him…"

Harry tensed. He leaned forward, pressing his fingers together in front of him, lost in processing the first bit of bad news.

"We can offer a potion regimen, but it's going to be a long process. I don't think he'll be up and out of here for a little while. Additionally he may need some rehabilitation—I know magic should be the cure-all, but it isn't. Some of this is going to have to heal on its own, and some of his injuries we won't know the severity of until he does start to get better." The Healer looked at the celebrity in front of him, finding it odd that the man cared so much about someone he'd certainly seemed to hate and would have had good reason to continue doing so even years later. If there was one thing, however, that he knew not to ask about, it was his personal life.

"When will he wake up?"

Michael had been hoping Harry wouldn't ask him that question. "Well, we're keeping him in good shape here. Making sure he's getting hydration and pain management. He's suffered some extensive damage so it might take a little while, but ideally he'll come to soon. It's up to him, though, Harry. All we can do is hope."

The green-eyed man shifted his gaze to the floor. It wasn't the news he had wanted to hear.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?"

Those amethyst eyes suddenly flickered with an emotion the Healer was hesitant to decipher. The stare alone was indicative of how protective Harry was feeling.

"Do you have cots here?"

Michael was quiet for a moment. "We usually discourage family and," he looked at the familiar scar on the olive-skinned man's forehead, wondering what to call him in relation to a known Deatheater, "friends from staying for too long. Patients need their rest."

"I don't want him waking up alone. Someone could go after him here." It was obvious that Harry wasn't intending on leaving, and no amount of persuasion would change his mind.

The Healer simply nodded. "I'll be sure to have someone bring one for you here."

All he received in response was a silent nod.

**::66::**

It took far too long, the green-eyed wizard thought, for anyone to check on Malfoy. He hadn't been paying attention to the time, but he felt like he had been there for ages. The silence gave him far too much lienency in repeating the last two days in his mind—Malfoy, Albus, Malfoy and him.

Remembering the way the pale man touched him was painful enough. In the bed beside him, with bruises, he looked different. Dark purple, nearly black contusions contrasted with his skin grotesquely.

When Hermione arrived, the memory of Albus's motionless flashed through his mind. A jab of pain hit him, squeezing his chest and his lungs.

"Harry," the woman said gently, embracing him in a hug. The man hugged bank, his grip tight, like she was the only thing keeping him afloat in a stormy sea.

"How is he?"

The look on her friend's face the moment she saw him was indicative of something serious, but she didn't know how much until he had told her.

"Broken bones, muscle damage." He paused, almost afraid to murmur the next sentence, like somehow it would keep Malfoy silent forever if he admitted it. "They don't know when he'll wake up. They don't want to risk bringing him out of it with a spell, not with the damage he has."

His tone was flat, but his eyes glittered with a chaotic whirlwind of emotion.

Hermione nodded, silent for a while. She took his hand. "Malfoy's always been stubborn. He's a Slytherin, self-preservation is a skill."

Harry didn't say anything, but she knew her reassurance meant a lot.

She found herself smiling a little. "Seems like he'll never really leave you alone, I don't think he'd quit now."

The wizard cleared his throat, shifting his gaze away from her and changing the subject. He couldn't pretend nothing had happened. "What…about Albus?"

She stayed silent for a moment. "When you're ready, we can…whatever you want to do, Harry. We can…bury him. Ron and I will help."

He was thankful she didn't refer to him like he was simply a corpse. _Remains _was a word he detested using in the context of death.

"He helped save Malfoy's life," the man said finally, "he deserves recognition for that."

Hermione nodded, agreeing with him.

"Is Ron all right?"

"He's busy now—they're in the process of strategizing. Trying to find the best way to approach the rest of the Deatheaters. He'll be working overtime for a while."

The man met her gaze, rage brimming through his body. "When they get Pansy…" he took a deep breath, trying to quell the storm inside him, "tell Ron I want to be there when she gets the Kiss."

Hermione had rarely seen how vindictive the wizard could be. How, even he, the savior of the Wizarding world, touted for having such morals and good character, could thirst for revenge and bloodshed over those he cared about.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea." She admitted, "I know you're angry, I know you want to see to it that she receives the consequences for her actions, but I don't think it'll be healthy for you to retain…those emotions."

Harry realized how much Hermione didn't actually know about how he'd changed after the war. Despite this, he knew she was right.

He just didn't care.

"Just tell him for me, please, 'Mione?"

The woman relented, saying that she would. It wasn't like she could say much else. She just hoped that he'd be distracted enough with Malfoy's recovery to invest the energy in the hatred that was growing inside him.

"I'll see if Ron can come by later. He'll probably have questions for you, about their investigation."

A long stretch of silence passed. When Hermione left, she saw, in the corner of her eye, Harry take Malfoy's hand. His thumb rubbed the underside of Malfoy's wrist. It was such a small thing and yet the action conveyed so much.

She prayed to Merlin that Malfoy woke up soon.

Losing him would destroy Harry—it didn't matter that he faced one of the most dangerous wizard of the world. It didn't matter that he still faced reminders of his legacy and danger every day because of it.

The hold Draco Malfoy had over Harry Potter was stronger than all those things combined. The man was teetering on a dangerous line, and facing a big threat.

The threat of having his heart broken.

…

_Want to know something kind of funny? This story was originally supposed to be only a few chapters long._

_It's interesting how things can change like that._

_The end is rapidly approaching. Originally I was planning to go on much longer, but I feel that it would screw with the storyline if I strayed too far from the current climax. What does this mean? Well, I'm toying with the idea of a sequel, so I'm asking all of you for a favor._

_After reading the final chapter, I would like you to consider this question:_

_Would a sequel be ideal for this, or should I leave it how it is? _

_This story is actually very personal for me in a lot of ways and holds some different aspects of the personal struggles I have and was facing over this past year—it's a form of catharsis. But I wouldn't like to impose that catharsis too much in a story and ruin the dynamics and relationships I have tried to convey._

_Tl;dr: I don't want to Mary-Sue this thing. I'm proud of how it's turned out, and I would like it to retain the level of work I've put into it. _


	22. Chapter 22

**::67::**

The next few days were restless for Harry. Ron hadn't come by yet, much to his surprise, but Hermione had stopped by every night. She would bring him something to eat, tell him he was always welcome at her and Ron's place.

He would nod, thank her for the meal, but seldom said much else. It was the way Harry always seemed to be, Hermione thought, with Draco Malfoy. Still waters ran deep—and with Harry, there had always been more than just a schoolboy rivalry, she supposed. Malfoy had always been as important to him as Ron and Hermione were—the boy to rile him up and get angry at, usually a welcome distraction from the other things looming on the horizon.

It was interesting how life worked.

Ron greeted her later that night, wrapping his arms around her from behind, kissing her cheek. She looked up at him, knowing the familiar exhaustion that would be on his face. Despite this and the tinge of worry around his features, she found him smiling at the fresh treacle tarts on the table. Hermione had made sure to get some, knowing that they'd make his night end on a better note.

"How's Harry?" He asked finally, knowing that nothing had changed but yet asking in the foolish hope that he was wrong.

"He's still waiting. I brought him some dinner."

The ginger-haired man sighed. "Tell him I'll visit as soon as I can."

His wife put on hand on his own, leaning back into his embrace. "He knows that, Ron. You're his best friend."

"The best friend that nearly got Malfoy killed." He drew away from her, slumping down at one of the chairs by the table, taking a treacle tart, "I don't get it, Hermione. I mean, I know Harry's Harry, and he's got that stubborn streak, and he wouldn't let _anyone _get hurt if he could, but Malfoy? I don't know him anymore, Herm. I just don't."

Hermione settled down next to him, wondering if she should tell him about the…changes in the two rivals' dynamic, but decided against it. Even she didn't know if anything had changed, and she doubted Harry would appreciate the additional stress.

It would have to be up to him. "You do." She answered reassuringly, "He's just going through a hard time right now."

"Maybe," Ron said, not fully convinced. He took solace, however, in the fact the Hermione was quite often right.

**::68::**

The first thing Draco Malfoy noticed when he woke up was the pain. Every inch of his body felt ached—the pain itself was hard to explain, but nonetheless it was an intense, sharp, pain that didn't ebb away in the slightest.

He turned his head slightly, and quickly learned that didn't help at all. The pained gasp that tumbled past his lips startled the man slumped beside him. Dark rings were around his eyes, his raven-black hair more tousled than usual, and his clothes look crumpled.

"You look like shit," Malfoy said simply, the comment coming out soft. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to not dwell on the pain, "and judging by your hair, also need a shower."

"You look worse," Potter responded, relief showing in his emerald-green gaze, "Do you need anything?"

He didn't respond, but the wizard noticed the pain in his eyes. Malfoy reckoned that if even Harry Potter, a man that could be denser than a brick, noticed that, it meant he needed to work on his nonchalance.

"I'll get someone to give you something to help with the pain." His silver eyes were especially striking that day—it was like an awful romance film. Regardless, Harry still thought so, perhaps because he was uncertain that he'd ever get to see them again.

That he'd ever get to hear another smartarsed, snarky insult. He never thought he'd actually miss that. Standing up, ignoring the way his bones cracked and the exhaustion the flooded through him, he left the room.

The blonde man rolled his eyes. Leave it to Potter to completely disregard his own health for others. It was so damned…Gryffindor. Malfoy remembered a time when he had detested that trait.

A healer came into the room. The Slytherin recognized him. A Ravenclaw from Hogwarts. "We're glad to see you're awake. Someone should be coming with something to alleviate your pain, but I'm here to tell you the extent of your injuries."

Somehow Draco found that an explanation was not at all necessary. The man started reading off a list, and it was obvious he hadn't expected the Slytherin to wake up or ever fully recover from his injuries. However, Potter seemed to think otherwise.

Mentally he rolled his eyes. His rival knew nothing about medicine, and was stubborn enough to discard the grim outlook the healer was talking about.

A woman came in, interrupting his long speech. She approached him, lifting a vial of potion to his lips. "Drink up," she cooed, "it'll help."

He decided he didn't like her.

Harry, watching the interaction between them, crossed his arms.

A slight smile graced Draco's lips. Potter could be so bloody transparent at times. Jealousy shone through his stare, and the Gryffindor apparently found it hard to stifle the glare he was shooting at the woman. _She _didn't notice, of course, as she was also busy trying to stifle the fact that assisting a Deatheater was not what she wanted to do.

The potion he'd just had was awful tasting—it left a taste in his mouth that was vile. Of course, on the second thought, Draco figured a few days without brushing his teeth could do that.

"Do you understand what I've just explained to you, Mr. Malfoy?" Corner asked, knowing that the man probably hadn't listened to anything that came out of his mouth.

"Sure," he answered dryly, "You think my outlook is dismal, and you figure I'm probably not leaving this place."

The Healer opened his mouth, about to counter the retort. Malfoy beat him to it. "You can leave now."

The man looked slightly offended, and looked at Harry. The savior just stared pointedly, his arms still crossed. Michael noticed that he had took a few steps closer to his patient. Defensive patients and their visitors were an irritating aspect of his job, so he took the chance to leave.

Malfoy turned his gaze to where Harry was seated. The pain, at least, had been dulled after the potion the nurse had administered. It hurt to move still, but it at least no longer felt like knives were slicing through every inch of his body. Potter hadn't said anything—he simply stared, seeming uncertain on what to do.

"How long did you stay?" The retort was followed with an arched brow. Even with broken bones and torn muscles, Malfoy still thrived on baiting Potter.

The glasses glinted as the light poured down on him. His shoulders rose as he shrugged—a wordless response.

"Well, I'm awake now, you don't need to hang around. Believe it or not, I'm not entirely unable to fend for myself." Malfoy knew the airiness of his tone would get a rise out of the other man. The rise of rage was unmistakable in those green eyes.

"You can barely move, Malfoy. You _can't _defend yourself." argued Potter, clenching his fists.

Cue eyeroll. "Your savior complex is a little extreme, Golden boy, you should really work on that."

The chair squeaked as his visitor slumped into it. Unsurprisingly, Harry was not intending on going anywhere. His lips were twisted into a scowl, complementing the look of affront in his stare.

The Slytherin said nothing. It didn't show, but Malfoy was somewhat reassured by Potter's unwavering presence. He'd never been particularly good at dealing with hospital visits.

"How much do you remember?" It was an impulsive question, one that rang out in the silence of the room. It was also a typical behavior for Potter—things had not changed as much as Malfoy thought they would. That, too, reassured him.

The question, though—he didn't like it. It triggered flashes of memories in his mind—Pansy and the manic look in her eyes, the cruelty distorting her face as she effortlessly pointed her wand at Albus and killed him. The laugh that ripped out into the sky after she had used the spell.

His grey eyes dared not to meet Potter's, for he knew what Potter would see if he did. He kept his tone flat.

_Everything, _he thought, remembering the way his skin tingled when Potter had touched him.

"Not much," he lied. "The last thing I remember was when I told you about the books."

Malfoy didn't need to look at Potter to know the way his body tensed, and the gutted sort of pain that was written all over his face.

He didn't need to look at Potter to know that he wouldn't mention what happened the night before Pansy had taken him.

The truth was, Draco had finally realized how toxic of a person he was. That had it not been for him, Harry would have been content in his flat, with his dog, living without the reminder of what the paler man represented—pain.

There was an ache in his chest as the sound of footsteps filled the air around him.

He knew it was the feeling of his heart breaking, and, Merlin, Draco hated that he felt it. Love wasn't something he had wanted, it wasn't something he'd expected to find.

It wasn't anything he deserved.

**::69::**

Harry appeared on Hermione's doorstep after he left Draco. The woman was surprised to see him there, but quickly deducted that something had happened.

And judging by the look on his face, it wasn't anything good.

The dark-haired man had entered her home without a word, slumping in one of the chairs. She herself said nothing, letting him be as she went to make him some tea.

The tea was accepted mutely, olive-skinned hands curled around the cup like it was something far more precious than a simple beverage.

"Where's Ron?" He asked finally.

Hermione wasn't surprised that her friend wouldn't admit the reason he came to see her, but she humored him anyway.

"Sleeping," she responded, "You just missed him."

The wizard nodded his head in response, but it wasn't an answer to what she'd just told him.

"Malfoy's awake?" It was an unwelcome question, one that made the man sitting across from her flinch. She took that to mean that he was.

"What did he do?"

The stare that met her own concerned gaze was hollow. Screaming of a pain that the man didn't want to admit.

"I kissed him that night," he murmured softly. A bitter smile twisted his lips. "The git knew exactly what he was doing. Goaded me into it."

He paused, taking a sip of his tea. "Typical Malfoy."

Hermione knew his last comment, too, was not about what he'd just revealed. "He kissed you back, didn't he?" She said, though a response for her question was unneeded. She knew it simply from the way his eyes shut, as if the reminder was too much.

Harry shrugged, everything about his demeanor now bitter and cynical. "Doesn't really matter now, does it?" His head tilted up at her. "He's forgotten."

At that moment the woman's fears had been confirmed.

"You aren't going to tell him?" She asked, almost pleadingly, trying to keep things from getting too damaged to repair.

"Of course not, Herm. Why would I? As far as he remembers, I'm the same irritating savior that he can't stand."

She wanted to say more, to convince him that it wasn't true. His stubbornness was a foe she had never managed to defeat, however.

He took another sip of his tea. "Do you mind if I stay here?"

"Please do," she answered quickly, "You know where everything is. Take a bath, get some sleep. You need it."

This was apparently a good idea to him, because the man accepted her suggestion without a second thought. She waited until he disappeared into the bathroom. It seemed to take ages for the sound of water running to greet her ears.

There was something she needed to do. Determination flooded through her veins, a silent sort of anger brimming there.

When she arrived to St. Mungo's, she ignored anyone who tried to speak to her. She was on a mission, and anyone that knew her, knew that Hermione On A Mission was nothing to be trifled with.

Draco, upon seeing his unexpected visitor, was startled. He once had never believed that Granger could be the slightest bit intimidating, but the one looming above him now struck a sort of anxiety in his chest.

"How dare you lie," she hissed, before his brain, jarred by her entrance, could formulate a snide retort.

He opened his mouth to saw something, but one pointed, hawkish glare shut him up.

"How _dare _you destroy the man who gave everything he had to save you, including risking his _own _life for you. Everyone else is against you, Malfoy—why did you have to go and turn the one person who loved you against you too?"

"Potter doesn't love me." His silver eyes narrowed at her, a telltale sign of the sneer that would soon follow.

Hermione exploded at that. "If you weren't in this hospital bed right now, I'd have put you in it myself. You are a cruel person, Draco Malfoy, and one day you'll regret what you've just done. Mark my words." Her eyes were dark, exuding a wild rage that could only have been elicited by the harm of someone she loved.

_I already do, _Draco thought, but did not voice it.

"You don't seem to understand, Granger," he sneered, the posh and snotty voice familiar to her, "It will always be this way."

The signature bushy hair swayed as she shook her head. "No, you're just a scared little boy. Running away is what you do best, isn't it, Malfoy? And you run over anyone who gets in your way."

The pale man sneered again. "My, you are a self-righteous one. Like your allegiance with Potter didn't let you do the same. Now you can go along and have your own Weasley clan. Potter's left with nothing else—the war is over, and no one has any use for him."

The air seemed to ripple with her bitter laugh. "You love him, and you know it."

She paused for a moment, the anger and bitterness ebbing away with her next thought. "You're just as destroyed as he is." Hermione said softly, "I suppose it's all you're capable of."

A wave of pain filled his chest, rising into his throat, making it hard to breathe. He couldn't have answered if he wanted to, because by the time he could breathe again, the woman was gone.

He didn't sleep that night. Granger's words haunted him. It was all true, and the worst part was that Potter was better off without him.

Even if Draco Malfoy was not.


	23. Chapter 23

**::70::**

Life at St. Mungo's was particularly miserable. Malfoy found himself unable to do anything except count down the time until his next potion. The Healer had come by once, and had asked where Harry was. The blonde man said nothing and had simply stared at the ceiling.

The memories in particular were the hardest to combat. His mind was stuck on a constant loop, obsessive on remembering every detail possible of Potter. He spoke to him in his mind, sometimes. That was the only place where Malfoy could admit that he missed the stupid Gryffindor—missed the owlish way Harry stood at him when he was surprised. He even missed the irritating way Potter would watch him when he thought the blonde wouldn't notice.

He missed the way Potter would silently ask for a hint of affection—a look, a nod, a compliment disguised as an insult. It had drove him mad because, Merlin, why couldn't he simply admit it instead of drawing him out?

Baiting Malfoy was one of his preferred activities, just as the blonde liked doing the same to him.

The pain seemed more unbearable without Potter around. Having no one be there whilst his body reminded him of every tear and break was a sort of loneliness that he'd never really encountered before.

He figured that he deserved it, and soon he began refusing anything that would alleviate that pain. Potter might not have made sure he faced consequences for what he had done, but Malfoy was certain to do it for him.

Harry, on the other hand, spent most of his time alone as well. He had buried Albus alone—it wasn't the sort of thing he wanted his friends around for, because it triggered a burst of rage shortly after, one that resulted in some swollen and bruised knuckles after taking it out on a wall.

Ron seemed happy to have him around, though he knew that his friend was concerned about him. He'd asked repeatedly for Harry to talk to him, but the man would dodge the request. Additionally the Auror refused to allow Harry to work on the investigation of the Deatheater safehouses and raids of each.

Harry asked every day if they'd caught Pansy yet, and Ron's answer was always the same.

One day, however, about two weeks after he'd left Malfoy's room, his friend had an interesting bit of news to share.

"It was Harvey that destroyed your flat," he said, almost nonchalantly. The bigger investigation of the safehouses was far more interesting than who had blown up the person who saved the damned world more than once, apparently, but the other man just peered at him through his glasses. He realized he didn't particularly care about what had happened there anymore.

It seemed so trivial.

He did miss his car, however, and Ron promised he would get it back soon.

"So everyone at the centre was a Deatheater?" The man said dryly, finding the whole ordeal ridiculous.

Ron shook his head. "No, actually—Harvey was a squib. Someone used an Imperius curse on him, probably because they didn't want the Ministry finding out about the safehouses from that. They needed someone else to do it for them, and, well, Harvey was the easiest target."

Harry felt a sort of pity for the man. Being a squib was difficult in the Wizarding world, but the fact that he had managed to make the centre's inability to use magic as a way to conceal that was a strategy he found somewhat impressive.

"Who's been running the centre now?" Harry asked. The man realized he hadn't thought about it at all—and it made him feel ashamed. He had been too self-absorbed.

"Harvey's still there—we have some people keeping security around the place for him and the children, and Neville and Ginny have been helping out too. The Ministry made sure to run a proper background check on anyone who wanted to help out, and they've been certain that anyone who did would need to cooperate with them for the sake of the investigation."

Harry suspected part of it was Hermione's doing. The Ministry wouldn't have given a damn unless someone threatened them, and he was glad that even if _he _was falling to shambles, there were enough people around to do what he couldn't.

Truthfully, while he missed working, he wasn't certain he could ever return to the centre. The memories alone it would trigger seemed like too much of a risk to take.

Guilt followed him around after what Ron had told him. He had been far too wrapped up with Malfoy to notice the way he'd been neglecting everything and everyone else.

The next day, after the discovery of Harvey's involvement, the head Auror came to Harry personally. _Please don't be asking about Malfoy, _he thought silently.

"Harry, it's good to see you. I hope you're doing well." he said, forcing a charming smile on his face. It was obvious that everything he said to Harry was an attempt to ensure that his career would benefit from the savior's involvement, but the man chose not to mention it.

The eyes Auror Timmins found himself looking into suggested the exact opposite. They were the eyes of a man who had simply taken all that he could possibly deal with, and it had broken him down into a shell of the person everyone else idealized him to be. The man did not say anything about it—making one of the most powerful people in the world upset was not something he wanted to do.

"Listen, we're having some issues with the safehouse investigation," he began, not noticing the look of dread in the other man's eyes, "The few Deatheaters we have in custody that haven't been given the Kiss refuse to help us locate them, much less explain how to destroy them." He paused, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder, "That's why I'm coming to you. Our last resort is Draco Malfoy. He won't listen to anyone but you."

His request for help garnered only an apathetic stare in response. "Draco Malfoy," he began tonelessly, though his body tensed as he said his name aloud, "is stuck in St. Mungo's and may never leave. If he does, it's not going to be for a while."

It was suddenly like a business deal. "Right, right, I understand. But you see, Harry, the sooner we close this investigation, the sooner the children at the centre can lead normal lives. I know you love those children, and everything the centre does. So I'm asking for you to find out when Mr. Malfoy is able to help us out a bit. Getting a timeline, so to speak."

The dark-haired man felt a wave of anger toward the Auror. He didn't care if Draco risked his health—he just wanted him to attain the status he was hungry for. And he was using Harry to do it.

"I'm afraid," he drawled, channeling something so very Malfoy-esque that it made his heart twinge at the memory, "I will not be able to help you. Whilst I do want to help the _children,_" he made sure to put emphasis on that, "I do not think a partnership with you will have the most benefit. I need to have someone who knows the centre, what it stands for and all that it does. I need to have someone who will, above all other costs, ensure that its safety is of the upmost importance."

The Auror reddened, immediately understanding the implication behind those words. Harry Potter was requesting that he be taken off the case—and that he himself replaced him. It made his blood boil.

The man left hastily, dropping the pretense he had been using.

Ron sought him out after that conversation, angry that Harry had gone behind his back to get himself on the case. He couldn't argue it, but he made certain that the wizard know his feelings on the matter.

"You've got far too much personal involvement in this whole thing," Ron snapped, "It's going to not only jeopardize everyone else involved, it could also mean that we'll lose out on the Deatheaters we're after."

Harry seethed. "I know this case. I know the centre. I think my personal involvement will be an advantage, not a disadvantage."

"Just like your involvement with Malfoy's kidnapping? That place was a madhouse, and I know we didn't have a solid plan, but there were ten different ways we could have approached it and nabbed more criminals there." Ron countered.

Harry sometimes had the tendency to take everything upon himself and not allow others to help. He understood why—it was the only way he was able to do things when it came to Voldemort, but it wasn't the sort of thing that worked well when one was an Auror. Partnerships were crucial, and Ron was concerned that Harry's thirst for revenge—which he found somewhat confusing because it seemed to be about Malfoy rather than Voldemort—would end up in sloppy investigative work.

His friend glared at him, the rage catching Ron off-guard. "I'm guessing most of those approaches _don't _end with Malfoy surviving, now do they?" he snarled.

"No, look, you were right. Malfoy is crucial to this, and we need him. That alone would have given us incentive to protect him—"

Harry laughed. "Incentive? You needed incentive to do what any decent human being would do?"

The man just sighed, not wanting to argue when his friend was lashing out. He met Harry's eyes, hoping to smooth things over. "We need help from the both of you. You leading the case I have an issue with, but I know I need your help, just like I need Malfoy's. I'm asking you for it right now. Please, Harry."

This seemed to calm him somewhat, though the irritation was still evident. "What do you want me to do?" He asked finally.

"Talk to Malfoy. See if you can get him—"

"He won't listen to me," Harry said flatly, "even you would be better off asking him yourself."

This was right about the time Hermione entered the room. She, of course, had been listening in, but the two men didn't know that. It was for this reason that her anger seemed out of place.

"I'm sick of this, Harry—you moping around and refusing to do anything. Yes, Malfoy's a git, yes, he's a stubborn, spoilt man who can be infuriatingly selfish." Harry was nodding along, seeming pleased that she agreed, "But you're being a stubborn, and frankly quite selfish, person too. What happened between the two of you was just that—_between the two of you. _Don't throw everyone else in the middle because _you're _too afraid to deal with it."

Both man stared at him blankly—Ron gaped at his wife and Harry simply looked defensive. "You can talk to him, Hermione," he said, "if you're so keen on dealing with the git."

"_Harry James Potter!" _The woman roared, "I will drag you down there myself if I have to, and don't you dare think I won't,"

Harry and Ron both knew that she would carry out her threat if she needed to. Ron shot a look at the dark-haired man, one that suggested he _really _cut his losses before Hermione unleashed her true wrath, and Harry found himself relenting.

He wasn't happy about it. He was slightly angry at his friends for putting him in that situation.

But part of him felt some semblance of hope. No amount of logic seemed to be able to squash it. So, after a sigh, he simply decided he had no choice.

Harry was going to have to see Malfoy again.

**::71:: **

The nurse that administered his potions daily surprised him. "Oh, there's some talk about you having a visitor," she said, secretly wondering if it was an Auror.

The first person that flashed through his mind, accompanied with a burst of inexplicable hope, was Potter. Then he told himself not to be stupid—there was no sense in acting like a Hufflepuff about it, especially since he was certain that the Gryffindor prat was never going to see him again, at least not voluntarily.

Malfoy, at least, was partially right. This, however, did not seem to matter because seeing Potter in the doorway—seeing the same irritatingly ruffled hair, the stupid glasses, which he really needed to get rid of, as his eyes would have been even more striking without them. The blonde berated himself for that slip-up but still found himself unable to take his eyes off him.

There had been so many things he had forgotten, despite trying to remember as much as he could. The curve of his neck, for example—he'd forgotten how his skin, overall, really, seemed like something that just needed to be touched.

_Shit, _he thought to himself. He was acting like a Hufflepuff.

Thankfully, Harry didn't seem to notice. Harry didn't seem like he wanted to look at his paler-skinned counterpart at all, actually. It made him realize how close he really was, and how very tempted he was to just…

_Don't think about it, _Harry chided to himself, and then pretended as though nothing were bothering him.

"Potter," Malfoy said. It was airy, just like the last time he had seen him.

It was a good thing, because it made Harry realize he needed to be as impersonal as possible. The darker-haired man gave him a slight nod, saying, "Malfoy," in greeting.

Only with Malfoy could simply saying his surname aloud seem like a greeting.

"What do you want?" He asked, not particularly wanting to bother with small talk.

That made it easier for Harry. "I'm here on the behalf of the Ministry,"

Malfoy scoffed. Of course he was. What other reason would he have? It wasn't like Scarhead there actually missed him, judging by the cursory glance he'd given him.

"They need your help locating the safehouses."

The spectacled man knew what his rival was going to do before he even saw it—first he was going to roll his eyes and then make a dry remark.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, and then answered, "I think that requires the ability to actually get out of bed, Potter, and I don't think I'll be doing that anytime soon. I would have thought you would have had better deductive skills than that—would have saved you the trip."

Harry scowled but knew him well enough that if he had countered with a retort of his own, it would have been what he wanted. And Harry wasn't feeling very charitable toward him, not in the slightest.

"I was sent here to find out how long it would be before you would have the ability to do so." It came across curt and sharp, enough to draw out a flash of irritation in the silver eyes staring back at him.

"I wouldn't know," he snapped, "that's more a question for a Healer, don't you think? Why bother wasting my time?"

The Gryffindor ignored it. "Most people would be counting down the days, but if you like it here…"

"Oh, please, Potter. What's not to like? Endless catering and being waited on? Quite the dream."

"I'm sure the pain's loads of fun, too. Not to mention the hobby of watching paint dry," Harry answered wryly, "you lead quite the riveting life."

Malfoy smirked at that. "You think you're my only visitor?" he said nonchalantly. No need to let Potter know how lonely he actually was. He'd find pleasure in that.

The other man shook his head. "All your friends are dead, want to kill you, or are in Azkaban," he paused, thinking, "Unless you have something you care to admit about those Deatheaters the Ministry's hunting down?"

Harry just smiled after that, mostly one of pity. He turned around to leave.

Malfoy found himself barely able to restrain calling after him. He knew he'd missed the stupid git, but he didn't know just how much until he'd visited again. Desperation was crawling up his throat—it was a vile feeling. Malfoys never entertained the notion of being desperate.

And yet, here he was, wanting more than anything to pull Potter back inside.

"Potter," his tone was sharp, betraying the mask he'd been wearing before. The man, upon hearing his name, froze. He didn't turn to look at him, but simply waited.

"I'm sorry…about Albus." He said finally. That wasn't what was truly running through his mind, but he did remember that he hadn't actually said anything about Potter's dog until now. It wasn't in his nature to flat-out apologize, but…well, he was desperate.

Potter did, however, turn to look at him after hearing that. "It wasn't your fault." He said simply. Perhaps others would have blamed Malfoy for that, but he didn't.

"Well," the blonde man said, and then paused as a particularly nasty stab of pain ran through him, making him gasp.

Harry narrowed his eyes at that. "You should be getting potions for—"

"I didn't want them," Malfoy snapped through gritted teeth, "Just forget about it. Run along."

If there was one thing no one should have told Harry to do, it was to forget about something. Much like Malfoy, he would run after it.

"Why?" the green-eyed man said harshly, "You need it."

The silver eyes roared with a sort of panic and, somewhat strangely, anger. He'd let that slip—it was stupid and now Potter was going to _know _and it was a humiliating, awful notion.

"Why would you put yourself through that?" Harry asked, taking a few steps closer, "It's foolish to not take care of yourself, the anti-inflammation properties alone would help with the recovery process—"

Malfoy glared at him. Potter just _had _to be the damned savior, the irritating Gryffindor, the fucking hero. "It doesn't matter, now does it, Scarhead?" he spat out, his angry tone reflecting more about the pain than he wanted it to.

The wizard whirled around after giving him an icy stare. Malfoy sighed. He was gone again. That was what he had wanted, wasn't it? Somehow he found it difficult to convince himself of that this time around.

And then Harry marched straight back in, hold a vial in his hand. He thrust it in the blonde's face. "Drink it."

"Are you daft, Potter? You can't simply force me to drink it if I don't want it, and I'm certain only licensed professionals are allowed to administer such things," he answered with a scowl.

"I know how to do CPR." He answered snidely, "There, I'm qualified. Now drink it."

After a moment of silence and no response on Malfoy's part, Harry simply sighed and said, "We can do this all night if we have to."

Malfoy froze for a moment, remembering the last time Potter had said that and…the activities in relation to it. He tried to shoo the memory away.

"We could," he answered, unable to help himself, wondering if Potter would notice.

The man didn't seem to. Or if he did, he didn't show it. Malfoy decided it was simply another sign that things were better with their current arrangement. At that, he took the vial, being sure not to let his fingers brush against Potter's.

"There, you've gotten what you wanted. Off you go."

There was a sort of mischievousness in the stare Potter was giving him, and instantly it made him wary. He chose not to say anything about it.

The man pulled up a chair, placing the empty vial on the side table and smirking.

Now Malfoy really was concerned. Then the realization hit him.

"Veritaserum," Potter said, grinning like a child in a candy store. Then he paused. "There is a nurse coming by with an _actual _potion, though, she should be here in a minute."

Malfoy just stared, trying not to gape. It was so bloody…_Slytherin _of him.

"How did you…"

"Ron," he said lightly, "he always keeps an emergency store."

The silver-eyed man sneered at him.

"In the meantime, however," Potter said, ignoring it and leaning in closer, "I do have a few questions for you."

"I hate you, Potter," Malfoy said quickly, narrowing his eyes. He wanted to get that out before his rival managed to get the best of him. He had to admit, though, that it was rare for Malfoy to truly be bested by anyone.

_Well, _he thought, remember all the empty threats he'd made as a student at Hogwarts, throwing hissy fits wherever and whenever he saw fit, _it was still mostly Potter's fault. _

"Mm," Potter answered, unconvinced, jolting him out of his thoughts, "Did you really forget what we did the night before Pansy took you?"

Malfoy shut his eyes, knowing he was incapable of doing anything else. "No."

"I see." continued Potter, sounding far too cocky. He leaned in, whispering, "And if we were there again, in that hotel room, would you kiss me?"

Heat flooded to Malfoy's face, partly out of humiliation and partly out of anger. The answer rolled off his tongue effortlessly. "Yes."

The green-eyed man pretended to ponder over his answer for a moment, teasing him. "And how much," he began, pressing one hand against his cheek, careful not to move him but gentle enough to rest it there, "do you want to kiss me now?"

Malfoy's eyes flickered with anger. "Much more," he said between gritted teeth, "than you know."

The man smiled. "All I needed to know," he whispered, kissing him as gently as his words were.

In that moment it didn't matter how much it hurt, Malfoy lifted his head up, kissing him harder, wishing he had enough tolerance for the pain to pull him closer with his arms.

"Oh," a voice said in surprise, "I'm sorry. Er, I'll leave."

Harry looked up. "No, no, please." He said, waving the woman over.

"I like you," Draco said, grateful to see the potion that would stop his body from screaming about the way he lifted his head.

She didn't seem particularly fazed by that, and Harry figured she got that sort of response a lot. She was still embarrassed about discovering them in their moment, however, to the point that she simply fled after the potion was gone.

"Feel a little better now?" Potter asked, and it wasn't cheeky or cocky, but of actual concern.

"Somewhat." Malfoy responded, and then glared at him, "That was a dirty trick you pulled."

The Gryffindor just laughed. "I learned from the best."

"What made you think I wasn't telling the truth?" If there was one thing Malfoy was intent on learning from the whole process, it was how to lie better.

"I didn't think you hadn't," the green eyed man responded, "It was Hermione, more or less. She was the one that shoved it into my hand before I left."

The Slytherin pursed his lips in an obvious sort of bitter admiration. Of course, Potter was too dense to figure such things out. Leave it to Granger to fix his messes—he wondered just how much the man had depended on her observational skills in the war.

He also wondered if it was inherently a female trait (Pansy seemed to be as good as Granger, if not more, being a Slytherin) or if males were simply being sired by men with less than desirable traits. It was the sort of thing Lucius would have said—though he wouldn't have admitted that the female Gryffindor was anything more than something to sneer at.

Draco found himself uncertain, still, on where his loyalties lie. He wasn't sure that his father in particular disagreed with Voldemort's ideals when he had decided to ensure his son's safety. It did make him wonder, though—if Lucius had any inkling at all that the Deatheaters would prevail, would he have done the same? If not, did it mean that Narcissa and Lucius both had their own secrets on how they attained their information?

The blonde knew that Voldemort would have done anything to keep his followers, include lie about how many soldiers he had lost. He likely would have attributed it to a 'straying of the flock' and how some needed to be taken care of as an example.

Voldemort always had loved his demonstrations.

The man supposed he never really would know everything about what led to his parents' decision. It would always eat at him, though—always haunt him when he looked in the mirror at himself—the silver eyes, the pale skin, the silver hair. Lucius would always be there, looking back at him.

Potter brushed a lock of silver-blonde hair away from his face. "No more questions, I promise." Everything about the motion was his attempt to draw the other man out of his thoughts.

He knew what could happen if one spent too much time there.

"Still mad at you," Malfoy said grumpily, but that response didn't seem to deter the other as he thought it would.

"I won't ask you why you lied," Potter said, his hand moving down to rest on the pale one that contrasted with his own. He supposed everything about Malfoy would be like that to anyone else.

The Slytherin, however, had nothing to say to his reassurance, but the other man knew him well enough that he appreciated that Harry respected the boundaries that existed.

"Want me to stay for the night?"

"Yes." Malfoy paused, and looked at him, the smile not daring to cross his lips but evident in his eyes, "I thought you said no more questions."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You know what I meant, you prat."

The pale man looked at him, stifling a yawn. "I'm tired. The potions do that."

Harry leaned back in his chair. "Sleep. I'm not going anywhere."

Malfoy seemed to think that a simple enough way to imply a promise, and didn't respond, drifting out of consciousness slowly after.

**::72::**

"Merlin," Ron grumbled, slumping at the table and taking a treacle tart, "how long does he need to talk to _Malfoy? _You'd think he was in love with the git, the way he's been trailing after him."

The man tensed, chewing his food slowly. Food always seemed to help him think clearer. "'Mione," he said slowly, "please don't tell me Harry's in love with that pointy, racist, spoilt prat."

Hermione said nothing, simply continuing looking through the book in her hand. He would sort it out eventually. Her husband might have had the tendency to be blind when it came to what others felt, but he usually figured it out sooner or later. Perhaps his job had kept him busy enough to not entertain such a dangerous notion, at least not until now.

"Herrrr-miiiii-oneeee," Ron whined, stressing the syllables in her name, "he can't be in love with Malfoy! It's…it's…it's _Malfoy! _I mean, it was weird enough when they were _working _together and then they were _living _together because Harry can't ever say no, apparently not even to a git like Malfoy, and…"

"And?" Hermione asked lightly, looking at him, her chin propped on her hand.

"You can't possibly think this is a good idea!" His hands gestured frantically to nothing in particular. "He's a _Deatheater, _Hermione—as in the sort of bloke you _really _don't want to bump into in a dark alleyway at night!"

The woman laughed. "Please, Ronald. Do you even remember what Draco Malfoy was like at Hogwarts? He was a whiny, spoilt prat. He pranced around with his money and his father's status. Even _I _was able to deck him. Irritating, yes. But how is that dangerous?"

He stared at her, his gaze suddenly turning stern. "War changes people, Hermione. You wouldn't have thought the squeaky little Pansy you met in first year would have done the things she did—you probably wouldn't have thought her able to do more than blindly follow, and look, she's become a leader."

"You've been investigating him," Hermione answered, holding her hand up when he tried to deny it, "and tell me, have you found _anything _that suggests Malfoy _didn't _disappear before the war really started?"

The man scowled. He hadn't, and it was something that had been nagging at him.

"No," he relented, "but his connection to the family alone is—"

"Oh, admit it, Ron!" she fired back, cutting him off, "you have nothing. Just a few schoolboy stories and nothing else!"

He scoffed at her. "So, what, you're just going to let bygones be bygones and risk the fact that Harry could get hurt?"

"If the risk of getting hurt in a romantic relationship was something that truly concerned me," Hermione said, in that way that suggested she knew he was wrong, "I wouldn't have ever dated you, much less _marry _you. Harry's a grown man. He can choose who he wants to see. What's important is that you're there as his _friend."_

Ron opened his mouth, but his wife cut him off again, "A friend, Ron. Someone who'll support him no matter what happens—not a judge."

"You're annoying sometimes," he murmured hotly, sulking at the fact that his wife had cut him at all opportunity, but most importantly, that she was right.

"I adore you every moment of every day too, darling," Hermione shot back lightly, patting him on the back of the head with her book, "What do you want for dinner?"

"Malfoy's head on a sti—"

"_Ron!" _

"Your tuna casserole sounds nice?"

"You hate tuna," She reminded him, "I'll use beef instead."

"I really do love you, Hermione." he said finally. Food always was the way to _his _heart.

"Glad to hear it," she answered, "because you're bringing Harry his dinner."

He could sulk all he wanted, as far as Hermione was concerned. It was either he give in and take the casserole to Harry, or sleep on the couch.

She'd made certain that the couch looked as lumpy as possible before he'd arrived.


	24. Chapter 24

**::73::**

Ron found himself in front of Malfoy's room far too soon. He'd hoped to find Harry somewhere other than the room he was avoiding, but through the window, on a small cot, slumbered a very tired and rumpled-looking Harry Potter. The ginger-haired man felt that it was all so very surreal. Who'd had ever thought Harry and Malfoy would ever occupy the same room without at least suppressing the urge to hex each other?

_Now they're suppressing other things, _He thought, before he could help himself, and inwardly squirmed at the thought. It was awkward enough to ever think about Harry and who he happened to bed with, but when it was Malfoy…well, some things were best left alone.

He stuck his head in the doorway, hoping to find an excuse to immediately leave, but a drawling voice stirred lazily around him, keeping him bound there.

"Well, well. Come to hit me again, Weasel?" The pale man asked with a sneer. The potion for his pain had worn off long ago, but Draco refused to actually request for help, and with Potter asleep...well, he decided he could wait.

It made him much more vicious than usual, however. His words had a sharper edge to them; even the most bland comment could have appeared abrasive. With Potter's friend, however, he wouldn't have bothered to appear any other way.

"I'm just here to drop off his meal," the man snapped, stalking over to set it down on the table, "it's got a heating charm on it."

"Consider it safe in my possession," The bedridden man answered dryly, "I don't imagine I will be going anywhere."

The comment garnered a hateful glance.

"I know about you and Harry," he said, narrowing his eyes, "I don't like it, and I don't like you, but I'll tolerate you as best I can if you do the same."

The silver-eyes rolled in the man's typical sarcastic flair. "The gesture is so kind, shall I take your hand and kiss it too?"

"It's not for you," responded the Auror heatedly, "it's for Harry. If you care about him, you'll do the same."

Malfoy pursed his lips, as if his comment required pondering about before he answered. "Very well, Weasely. I'll tell Potter you stopped by."

His visitor didn't move at the obvious suggestion that he leave. "If you hurt him, Malfoy, I swear to Merlin you'll regret it."

Malfoy chose not to mention he planned on doing a multitude of things to his precious Gryffindor when he was capable of them, but thought better of it. There was no need to get personal with him, and especially not an Auror.

"I won't give you the satisfaction of being able to carry that threat out," he answered, a conceited glow in his eyes, "because I know how very much you want to."

The man just gave him a smile that made him look as though he'd tasted something bad. He turned and left, waiting until he was halfway down the hall to let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Couldn't fall for any other bloke in the whole damned world," Ron muttered to himself, "It just _had _to be that spoilt arsehole." He shook his head. Understanding Harry was something he couldn't do, not when it came to Malfoy. He wondered what the celebrity Gryffindor saw in that snake, because he couldn't find a single redeeming quality.

**::74::**

The man in his thoughts had woken up moments after Ron had arrived, lulled into consciousness by Malfoy's voice ringing in the room. He heard the pain in his voice, despite how much he tried to conceal it.

But he stayed still, eavesdropping, wondering how the exchange would go. Truthfully he was surprised it didn't end with at least a verbal brawl.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, feigning sleepiness. "Malfoy," he said, glancing for a moment at the plate beside him, "you need to ask for potions when you need them."

The thinner man just gave him a dark look. "And give them the satisfaction? I may have lost quite a few things, Potter, but I won't give them my dignity either."

He could be so prideful and arrogant. It really drove Harry mad—things would be so much simpler if he could at least grasp the concept of humility. The sigh that escaped his lips apparently reflected that thought, because his immobile counterpart glared at him again.

"Weasley came by." It was a sudden change of a conversation topic, and the instigator of the change knew how thinly-veiled it was, but couldn't muster up the ability to care. "The non-bushy haired one with that dreadful ginger hair. Dropped off that lovely," he flicked his eyes over to the covered plate, "and completely sophisticated meal."

Harry bristled at the insult. Did that git ever think about he said? He mentally smacked himself for the silly question. Of course he did. It was _Malfoy, _phrasing insults was his favorite hobby. The spectacled man knew that the arrogance was something Malfoy would never change, and he also knew that the man took pride in formulating original jabs.

He would not admit that the Slytherin did not always achieve that goal.

"I'll get someone to bring your potion," he said in response, rising to his feet. The change in position made him slightly dizzy, and he grabbed hold of one of the rails on the hospital bed to steady himself.

"For Merlin's sake," said the other man crossly, "don't go and get yourself killed over it. You really are an uncoordinated git."

Harry allowed a small smile to take hold of his lips, not wanting to completely reveal the surge of affection that caught his breath. It was sort of ridiculous, really, that backhanded compliments were something he enjoyed with Malfoy rather than hated—with anyone else, it would have irritated him.

When he returned, the Slytherin noted that the potion was in his hand. One brow arched reflexively, the drawl that accompanied it also an unconscious action. "Like I'll fall for that again, Potter."

The ruffled-looking man just chuckled. _How interesting, _Malfoy thought, _with that messy hair of his, he does have the likeness to that beloved lion of Gryffindors. _The aforementioned man came closer, holding the potion out to him.

"That really does taste vile," said the man after he'd taken it, his face contorted in disgust.

Harry sat next to him. The Gryffindor found himself starved at the sight of food, and thanked Merlin that he had Hermione to feed him. There was a treacle tart there, and he picked it up, handing it to his…well, what was Malfoy to him? They were hardly rivals, even if they did keep up their verbal sparring.

The savior supposed the correct term would be something soppy like 'lover' or 'boyfriend' but Harry wasn't sure what Malfoy would think about those words. Nor was he certain that anyone in the whole world would ever think to pair such terms to their hero.

The man in which he'd been trying to figure out how to refer to, on the other hand, didn't argue the gift. The sweetness of it—the dessert, he told himself, not the action—pleased him. Malfoy watched Potter eat for a moment and then piped up, "It really is unfortunate that you haven't tasted proper cuisine," he said coolly, "I'll have to teach you about _real _food."

Harry nearly choked, his eyes widening in surprise. It was quickly stifled, however, and the man answered as coolly as Malfoy had suggested it. "Okay," he answered.

Then he said, "I've never seen you actually eat here."

The blonde shrugged. "Dinner will come by sooner or later," he said, "feel free to gawk at it, though I'm not certain why the basic act of chewing is so fascinating to you."

"Do you have to deflect every bloody thing I say, Malfoy?"

The Slytherin cricked his head, looking almost amused. "It would be dull otherwise, wouldn't it?"

To his surprise, Harry shook his head. "It's a sign that you don't trust me." He heard the sharp intake of air in response to that, and continued, "You let me kiss you, save your life, and play Healer with you, but you can't have a simple conversation without acting like it's some sort of strategy game?"

"Playing Healer sounds nice," Malfoy responded cheekily, "shall we do so?"

"I'm serious, Malfoy," Potter responded, not giving in to the attempt to bait him away from his original point. The man seemed disappointed by that.

He shrugged, ignoring the pain that occurred whilst he did so—it at least was dulled enough so that he could hide it. "If you want someone to coddle you and fill your ear with sweet nothings," he drawled, catching the way the other tensed at it, "you're looking at the last person in the world who would do it."

A dry laugh filled his ears. "Doing it again. You know exactly what I mean. You really are a Slytherin," he said, "twisting words around for your benefit."

"If you don't like it, you know where the door is," he snapped, glowering at his response.

"I could leave right now and you wouldn't be bothered by it at all?"

Malfoy was relieved the Veritaserum had worn off. He shifted his eyes away from the green ones that were boring far too close to his personal thoughts.

"Just saying that you don't need to do me any more favors, Potter." Draco actually meant it to be honest, to reflect the tiniest shred of truth, and the moment it left his mouth, he knew that was the last thing it seemed.

_Shit, _he thought, frustration running through his body. He hated feeling so damned helpless, it wasn't what Malfoy was used to and he wanted it to go away.

But he didn't want Potter to, who seemed to be about two milliseconds away from stomping right through the door.

"I mean," Malfoy started weakly, scrambling for the words, "don't stay because you're a Gryffindor and you have to save everyone. Don't stay because you want to be the hero."

Potter did not relent and instead pushed further. "What do you want me to stay for, then?" he asked, the words crisp.

The other man just stared at his hands like they were suddenly the most fascinating things he'd ever seen.

"Well?" It was impatient. Curt.

_Stupid, stubborn, speccy git, _Malfoy thought bitterly, though he was not impulsive enough to voice it aloud.

"Your presence isn't too hard to tolerate," the Slytherin answered finally. It didn't seem enough for Harry, the stare alone made that clear.

"What is it you want, Potter?" the blonde man finally snapped, his arms triggering soreness as he crossed them.

This seemed to frustrate his counterpart further, like he didn't understand what Malfoy was doing. "Honesty. And not that thinly veiled, secretive honesty you use with your insults—just say it, Malfoy."

"Just say it?" he echoed flatly.

"It's a fairly simple concept," he said, smiling wryly at turning the other man's answers on him.

This answer was followed with a silence, but Harry didn't say anything. The man was obviously grasping at words, trying to find a way to _not _use the tactics that, up until now, had always been his way of interacting.

"I just like you here, Potter," he said softly, shutting his eyes at the vulnerability that followed him, "I think that's obvious. Why isn't it enough?"

"Not always obvious," he answered, "why did you lie to me?"

Malfoy just chuckled dryly. It was the worst question he could have asked—leave it to Potter to choose the one he'd been dreading.

"Well, let's make a list, shall we, Potter?" he began, ignoring the dryness in his tone, "I was part of the allegiance of the man that tired to kill you more than once. I went out of my way to insult you at every turn at Hogwarts. Then I end up at the one place that you loved more than Hogwarts, and contributed, albeit unintentionally, to its downfall, as well as putting innocent children in danger."

Harry was obviously going to argue what he was saying, so he continued—may as well say everything at once.

"Did I forget to mention that I hexed your friends frequently, called Granger quite a few less-than-kind words, and was part of the reason why Snape was able to carry out his vendetta against you so well?"

Potter was silent, seeming somewhat surprised at what he was hearing. _Don't ask for things you don't want to hear, _the blonde thought dryly.

"Oh, and the cherry on top happens to be that I killed your damn _dog, _Potter."

"I don't understand," he answered, shaking his head.

"I am the perpetrator of chaos in your life, Scarhead. I was part of it when you were a child, and I'm a part of it now. Face it—you were better off without me around." Draco smiled bitterly, his eyes glittering in a way that didn't hide more of the honesty he was trying to conceal now, after saying far too many things he was comfortable with.

"Toxic, Potter." He finished, but it came out far less harshly than he wanted it to.

Harry just kept shaking his head for a few moments, his eyes furrowed in disbelief. "It was out of your control, Malfoy. Why do you think you could possibly have changed anything that happened? You're _one _person. Don't take on the blame for the sole fact that you're human."

"Funny, I could say the same for you."

This seemed to elicit more head-shaking from the dark-haired man next to him.

"Sometimes there are things you can't fix," Malfoy muttered, "and you need to give up before it breaks you too."

That seemed to bring Harry out of his quiet state. "You really are a stupid git."

A moment passed, and, had Draco been able, he would have kissed Potter just to shut him up. Even if it would unintentionally reinforce his whole Gryffindor, heart-to-heart bullshit.

"My point is," he sighed, "you've done more good than bad. You just don't see it."

The blonde did not believe this in the slightest, but Harry seemed undeterred.

"I'm the boy-who-just-wouldn't-fucking-die," he whispered, taking Malfoy's hand despite the flash of hesitation that ran through his face, "what makes you think I'd be any less stubborn with you?"

"You really are foolish at times, Potter." The man responded, growing tired.

"If I'd had any inkling at all that you were so awful to have around, I wouldn't be here. I do think I can speak with experience on that one. You know, the whole defeating-a-dark-wizard thing."

Malfoy didn't answer.

"We might be haunted by things we'll never be able to kill," Potter continued, "but they have less power when you're around."

The other man had to laugh at that. "That's quite dramatic, Potter. Been reading trashy romance novels lately? And if they have less power even when I'm barely mobile in a hospital bed? Merlin, if that's all you need for protection, you really are arrogant."

Harry knew it was in jest and did not answer. He rubbed the underside the man's wrist instead. He, also, did not say anything when the Slytherin brought his hand closer to his chest, his chin resting against it. Sometimes things did not need a narrative, the Gryffindor thought to himself, and right now was one of those times.

When Malfoy drifted off to sleep shortly after, the green-eyed wizard simply leaned back, memorizing the angles of his face, taking in the intimacy of the moment.

Perhaps one day the man would see what he saw—someone weary and broken, but yet having the willpower to continue through it, even if that willpower was shielded by an abrasive demeanor. Most of all, he saw a person that was just as flawed as he was, and to Harry, it was the thing he liked most of all.

**::74::**

With his current day job, Ron figured Harry was not going to be leading the investigation he had so quickly jumped into. It irked him some, as Malfoy's ability to distract his friend had always been obvious, but moreso now, since they'd gotten past grade-school antics and actually acted their age. The auror still wished they'd left it at name-calling and hexes, but judging by Hermione's steadfastness to the development, he doubted it would happen.

Now he actually had to ask Timmins to work with him again. Ron _hated _Auror Timmins. He was a skeevy, self-absorbed git, and had no qualms about throwing other less experienced coworkers under the bus for his own gain.

The man was balding with an eternally greasy moustache, like he'd just arrived from lunch with the Dursleys. Actually, he looked quite a bit like his friend's uncle, but with smaller, beady eyes and a smile Ron could only describe as ratlike. It reminded him of his pet rat.

"Auror Weasely," the man greeted him, turning around in his desk chair suddenly, his stare intensely bitter, like his visitor had stolen something very precious to him. "May I ask why you happen to be in my office?"

"I just wanted to let you know—"

He was cut off by a flourish of hands, slicing through the air and very effectively confusing him into silence. "I know all about your little promotion, Weasley, but don't expect any encouragement from me," he said, the dark stare suddenly making sense, "as I was not the one who recommended you."

The chair squeaked as it turned its back to Ron, the action clearly showing how little he wanted to do with his visitor. "But I'm sure you don't have to take any guesses on who recommended you, now do you?" It was meant to sound as bitter and accusatory as possible, and under any other circumstance the ginger-haired auror would have had to act quickly to stifle his temper, but he was far too surprised to even be offended in this case.

Ron had wanted a promotion for quite a while, but this was not the way he'd wanted to attain it. It said nothing of his professional ability and spoke all of his personal connections, one of which was, obviously, Harry Potter.

As far as he was concerned, he was about as good as Timmins right now, and he wouldn't stand for it. It was obvious Harry hadn't thought things through, otherwise he would have realized how the action reflected upon him.

He needed to talk to Harry, that much was certain, but he found himself sitting, very glumly, at his dinner table. Hermione was out, likely at the centre, and he had been hoping to catch his wife over his lunch break to talk to her about what had just happened.

No, not hoping. He _needed _it. Hermione always knew what to say in situations like this. Ron had grown to accept his inability to approach extremely delicate personal situations, and Hermione was always the person he went to for it.

Well, her and Harry.

In that moment he realized how much he really did miss his best friend.

…..

_This was much shorter than I intended it to be, and for that I apologise, I'm afraid I'm feeling a bit under the weather today. Tomorrow will hopefully bring you a much longer chapter!_

_Best,_

_B._


	25. Chapter 25

**::75::**

"Mrs. Weasley?" A young boy timidly approached Hermione as she was helping Ginny supervise their lunch time, a large sheet of paper behind him.

"Hello, Connor," Hermione greeted him warmly. Despite her repeated efforts to be referred by her first name, Connor would only refer to her in the most cordial way possible. She looked at the paper he was holding behind him.

He handed it wordlessly to her. In crayon, beside a brightly-illustrated sun, were two men—one with dark, wild hair and green eyes, the other, almost a polar opposite, with light hair and silver eyes. Albus was also portrayed in the drawing.

"Do you want me to give it to Harry? I can do that."

"And Mr. Corvus?" the boy asked.

The woman nodded, wishing the child would allow her to hug him or at least pat him on the head. Connor was one of the children that could ruin an entire lighting circuit if touched or accidently provoked in some way. It tended to happen when stressful events happened, and this—the centre all but barely operating—was stressful enough, she supposed.

Even with Ginny and Neville shutting down their shop for a few days a week and Hermione helping out when she could, the shift in dynamic was already obvious to Connor and the others. Once, the Ministry had come in without any forewarning and the chaos that followed took days to settle.

It was nearing three weeks without a sign of their two beloved teachers and caretakers. Madame Hirsch's true occupation wasn't revealed to the other children, naturally, but her disappearance was as hard-hitting as Harry's and, she was surprised to see, even Malfoy's.

Hermione feared that the children would lose hope in ever seeing them again. She hadn't told Harry yet, but there was more pressure to move the children to different orphanages. It didn't seem to matter _where _they were put—someone suggested an orphanage in _Russia _of all places—as long as they weren't _there_.

Despite the undergoing investigation of the Deatheater involvement in the strange occurrences around the centre, it apparently didn't change as many minds as Hermione thought it would. People detested anything to do with the war now—any reminder or anything that perpetuated its memory was treated like a bug that needed to be squashed.

Hermione, like her husband, decided that she needed to talk to Harry. He would need to know sometime of how his centre was faring, and she could no longer keep it quiet.

**::76::**

"Shepherd's pie slush today?" Two silver eyes flickered to the man that had brought by the tray, "I really have been waiting with bated breath for this."

The waitstaff had been directed to simply deposit whatever potion or meal he needed and leave without another word. Draco couldn't _imagine _what possessed such direction. He was always so polite.

He hadn't had a proper shower or bath in ages, but the blonde managed to convince the staff once that he truly was allowed to get up and go to the washroom. Harry had gone for his own shower.

The farthest he got was sitting up, his feet dangling over the bed, before Potter was back and asking what, pray tell, he was doing.

Cleaning and washing charms were no substitute for a real shower. It was driving him mad but Potter at least had the grace not to suggest he help with a bath. Malfoy imagined it was partly due to personal…responses that might occur but regardless, he was not dense enough to ask.

The bathroom on the other hand, at least using the toilet, was something both of them chose not to talk about. There was nothing particularly good to say about having to pee inside a tube that emptied into a bag, nor did he want to think about the blow to his dignity and autonomy every time he did have to use it.

He liked having Potter around, but drawback was that he had absolutely no privacy whatsoever.

_Well, _the blonde thought, looking over at the sleeping man next to the bed, _If he still wants to shag me after all this, I'll be amazed._

He stared at the mush in front of him—and it truly was simply mush. According to Healer Corner, he wasn't supposed to be eating anything that didn't appear to be some kind of slush for at least three more weeks. The blonde wizard just thought it to be some kind of torture tactic.

He watched Potter stir beside him at the sound of his drawl. "Oh, look, Golden Boy," he said, motioning to the turquoise tray in front of him, ignoring the pain it caused, "surely you'd like some?"

"Someone's in a good mood," the green-eyed man responded dryly, recognizing the edge in the tone Malfoy used.

The man just stared at him darkly, chewing at the food—which, Draco would never admit to anyone but himself—was actually fairly good. Most of what he'd been served was good—granted, it wasn't the Malfoy cuisine he was used to, but it wasn't another damned corned beef sandwich either.

Regardless, he needed something to lash out at and complain about—three weeks of this place was driving him up the wall, and Harry barely knew the worst of it. He'd only been there a few days.

He didn't voice any of these thoughts, however, and just kept chewing at something that didn't needed to be chewed, that dark stare transfixed on his fork now. Every movement of his jaw, of his arm—it hurt. He shut his eyes, bitterly giving in to the way his body would freeze in response to that pain.

"I swear to Merlin," Malfoy asked, in an icy voice, "if you ask me if I need another potion I will—"

"I wasn't going to ask you anything," the wizard beside him lied.

Harry expected the sardonic look in response. He didn't expect for there to be no snide comment tumbling after it. If Malfoy was passing up such an easy insult then it was obvious he was more irritated than usual.

If there was anything either of them was intending to say, they wouldn't have had the chance with the Healer striding in.

The man in the bed rose one eyebrow at him. "Well, well," he drawled, "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten all about me."

The healer stared at him. "Even if I wanted you, my staff wouldn't let me." He glanced at Potter, not surprised of his seemly random presence in the room. The man walked up to Malfoy, ignoring the disdainful stare that eventually smoldered into hate as he lifted one arm, bending his elbow.

Malfoy gasped sharply.

"Still hurts?" Michael asked, ignoring the sneer he got in response.

He moved, as if he were going to try the same on the other arm, when Potter interjected. "Look, I think it's fairly obvious—"

"Nothing is obvious," countered Healer Corner smoothly, "but Mr. Malfoy is recovering at the rate that I expected—" he looked down at the paperwork in his hand, "actually, somewhat faster than I expected, and I think after about two weeks we can consider putting him on an outpatient basis. Of course, that would depend on other things."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. The Healer had come in to see him three times over the course of his visit. What did he know? He could have lost an arm and wouldn't have known until today.

"Outpatient basis?" he heard Potter echo.

"Well, he'd have to have someone look after him. The rehabilitation process following extensive injuries like this can take anywhere from six months to a year, and he'd need someone to take him to those rehabilitation treatments as well as just monitor his health for that time period."

The two men stopped talking when another person entered the room. Draco looked up, raising his brow at Granger's presence, and found himself even more curious when it didn't appear that she was leaving.

"Harry, can I talk to you outside for a moment? Sorry, Hermione—I'll return him to you straightaway,"

Potter glanced at him, a wordless reassurance, before stepping out with the healer.

This left the blonde wizard and his friend alone in the room. It apparently made the woman shy because, unlike the fiery, angry Granger he had encountered the last time he saw her, she simply just stared at him.

He saw the rolled piece of paper in her hand. "Got something, Granger?" Malfoy asked, and though it came across disinterestedly, the woman apparently wasn't fazed by it. She seemed distracted, because she actually had to look at what he was referring to before answering.

"Oh, Connor wanted me to give this to Harry and you, actually." Her stare was still dim, but she unraveled the paper and handed it to him, "He misses you."

He found that the boy had written a letter on the back:

Mr. Corvus,

Come back soon, we miss your storys

Love,

Connor

PS: Tell Albus hi

Hermione was not too distracted to see the way the razor-sharp stare that Malfoy seemed to give everyone, intentionally or not, had dulled slightly at the reminder of Connor and the centre. She found herself wondering if Malfoy knew about the difficulties that they were facing.

"How are they doing?" he asked, careful to make his tone as light as possible.

The woman hesitated, uncertain on how much she should share with Malfoy.

"Please don't tell me you've let the House Elves loose," he said dryly, detecting her hesitation and deducing that something had happened. Her silence to his insult simply proved him right and he said, "Really, Granger, what is it?"

"There's been a public outcry for the children to be transferred. Some of them will probably be going to one of the Wizarding schools as a compromise, but the community as a whole is pushing for the centre to be shut down." The bushy-haired woman sighed, "I don't know what to tell Harry, or _how _to tell him."

"Why hasn't there been a public announcement of the investigation yet? That alone should clear the centre of any foolish—" His tone had switched from something light to something very bitter.

Hermione didn't comment on the apparent mood change, but simply said, "There has been one. It doesn't seem to matter—they refuse to release information on the safehouses as being the cause of their problems because it could risk the case entirely."

"So get Potter to announce it." The man responded smoothly, wondering why it hadn't crossed her mind. Surely, Potter could override damn near anything. Malfoy was unaware of how much interference the savior had in his rescue, but it wouldn't have surprised him either way.

The woman froze, at first taking it to mean that Malfoy didn't care about how much trouble Harry could get in for such a thing, but stifled her first reaction for her secondary—Malfoy probably didn't know. "He might be Harry Potter," she said, "but not even he could get away with betraying secrets like that, especially if it ended up compromising the trial."

He seemed to ponder over her answer. It was strange, this was probably only conversation between Granger and himself that hadn't ended in insults. "What _would _help save the centre, then?"

The woman seemed surprised at his question. "Harry hasn't told you yet?"

The silver-eyed man narrowed his eyes. "Told me what?"

"The investigation—at least for locating the safehouses and ideally finding more fugitives if not how to destroy them—has essentially been at a standstill. No one wants to talk."

And the longer they waited, the less chance the centre had of existence. Draco felt himself bristle with irritation. He wondered when Potter was planning to share that tidbit of information with him, or if he was even planning to.

Granger seemed to catch on to his anger. "Don't get mad at him," she said, "he probably didn't mean to keep it from you, he just—"

The man in which they were speaking of and now who had three separate conversations that he would not enjoy, seemed unaware of this. He simply smiled at Hermione, pleased to see her again and—

The blonde narrowed his eyes again. He had been smiling before he got into the room. A ripple of jealousy flew through him. What had Corner said? He hadn't particularly wondered about what sort of person the Healer bedded, but now he was.

It looked, from the way the woman hugged Potter and was smiling at him, like Granger was actually considering leaving without telling Potter anything.

"Oi, Granger," he said, a slight hint of warning, "don't forget to tell him about Connor."

"Oh, he made you both the sweetest card," she said, ignoring his blatant suggestion that she tell the truth, "he really misses you. I need to go talk to Ron though, before his lunch break is up. I'll come by later, okay?"

The woman briefly met the blonde man's gaze, and then left. _Gryffindor bravery my arse, _he thought with a scoff.

Harry didn't seem to notice the somewhat strange dynamic in the room, however. Whatever Corner had told him was distracting him, and he looked…happy. Malfoy scowled.

"What are you so pleased about?" he snapped.

Potter frowned. "If you're going to be so unpleasant about it, why should I tell you?"

The blonde man rolled his eyes. "At least have the decency to hide such elation after being hit on or asked out or whatever it is Corner did." He muttered darkly.

This seemed to surprise Harry. He'd seen Malfoy act jealous and petty due to that jealousy but he'd never expected to see it over him, the man that was usually cause _of _his jealousy at Hogwarts. He smiled again.

"No, if I can…well, if you'd like, really…" suddenly what he was going to say seemed less exciting and more nerve-wracking, "You could leave now, go on outpatient basis if you wanted," Harry managed to blurt out finally after a few attempts, each which seemed to amuse Malfoy.

"Your flat blew up and it's not exactly like I can go looking for a new place, much less take care of one," he reminded dryly, "I'm fairly certain I'm stuck here for the time being, Potter,"

"You could always live with me, you know," the other man responded.

The blonde seemed to find this a dim comment for him to make. "Your flat is gone, Potter. Hell, it may as well be that you're living here with me,"

"So we can stay with Ron and Hermione while—"

A loud laugh interrupted him. "Are you daft, Potter? Just because we're…" the usually unruffled man stumbled over the beginning of that sentence and rephrased it, but not before a slight tinge of pink in his cheeks gave him away, "We're not going to get on just because you and I manage to occupy the same room without hexing each other."

"You hate it here," the man reminded him, "and Hermione could always help if I had to—"

"_No, _Potter," Malfoy said finally, knowing that the Gryffindor had the best intentions but also knowing that he didn't want to be a burden on more than one person. Despite this, the slightly crumpled expression on Potter's face caused a twinge of remorse.

"What'll happen when you do get sent off, then?" he asked, a slight twist in his chest occurring as he waited for the answer.

The silver-haired man shrugged, and instantly hated himself for the motion. It had made his Gryffindor counterpart shift his gaze somewhere else, as if he were hesitant to let his own thoughts be clearer.

"We'll sort it out later," the pale man tried again, and that seemed to be a much more favorable response. Potter gave him a half-smile for that. The olive-skinned man came closer, picking up the drawing Connor had made.

"He misses you," the darker-haired man said, turning it over to look at the letter. "I'm not sure what to tell them about Albus."

Malfoy looked at him, remembering the way Connor could fish out a lie in moments. "Just tell them the truth. Maybe not all the details, but I don't think they'll believe that whole 'he went to a farm' tale."

There was a pause. The blonde-haired man remembered what Granger had told him—both about the centre and what Potter had been withholding. He decided the former was more important than the latter. He could ream the Gryffindor for that later.

"Potter, you need to go there tomorrow," he said finally.

Green eyes searched his own in concern. "I can't, not with you here."

For some reason that response irritated him. "Look, I'm not going anywhere, am I? It's been three weeks, the place is probably chaos and I can't imagine that Granger can run it nearly as well as you can." Malfoy remembered second year, when Hogwarts had all but been left at a standstill. It wasn't something he particularly enjoyed, beyond the circumstances with his father that year. He imagined that the residents of the Dumbledore Centre of Wizarding Youth—privately, he still thought the name absolutely dreadful—felt particularly jarred by it all.

Potter was still conflicted over his suggestion. He knew Malfoy was right, but it didn't make things any easier.

"Are you sure?" he asked finally.

The other man stopped himself from nodding. "Yes, Potter. I wouldn't ask you otherwise."

A twinge of worry still festered in Harry's stomach. What if something happened to Malfoy and he wasn't there?

"I'll still come see you," he said, "and sleep with you." A rush of crimson flooded his face, realizing how his answer sounded.

Malfoy smirked. "Somehow I doubt the staff will allow that, so do try to restrain yourself."

The savior rolled his eyes. "Gee, Malfoy, I dunno, I could just pounce right now. I think if I can manage for three weeks, I can manage for another night," he answered dryly.

"So you admit you find me ravishing and you're dying to—"

There was a rush of pink in Potter's cheeks as he said, "Really, Malfoy, let's not have a chat about this right now."

"Because you want to ravish me."

"Oh, shut up, you git." The dark-haired man muttered, "Like _you _don't think of the same thing."

"Ravishing myself? Not particularly…" he answered, and then dragged his eyes down Harry's form. "It's a pity I'm not into the whole sadomasochism thing."

Harry decided not to comment on that implication.

**::77::**

"Ron," Hermione said, seeming surprised at her husband's glum expression when he arrived home later that night. She looked at the clock. It was five, and early for him. Instantly she rose to her feet and embraced him. "What happened?"

His brown eyes met hers, the tilt of his lips not changing as he responded. "I got promoted."

The bushy-haired woman at first stared at him, and then smiled, albeit confusedly. "That's great, Ron! You've been working for one, it's what you always wanted…" she trailed off, seating next to him on the couch he'd slumped upon, "so why don't you seem happy?"

"Because _Harry _recommended me. They put me as lead investigator on the Deatheater case. It wasn't about my skills or work at all, it was just because of _Harry _and his blasted celebrity reputation. Do you know how that makes me look, 'Mione?"

"Ron," she said patiently, "who said Harry recommended you?"

"Timmins, of course," he answered, "who else?"

"I would imagine that Timmins had some bitterness about being replaced on the case, and I would also suspect that he would use any reason he could find to explain why you got it that wasn't dependent on your work." She answered, taking one of his hands and leaning against him, "and if no one else said anything about it, then why would you take anything he said to be true?"

The taller Weasley nodded. "They wanted me off the case when they found out it had to do with Harry."

"This isn't about Harry's flat, Ron," she said, "this is about the Deatheaters and the safehouses."

"And Malfoy, who's connected to Harry."

"Malfoy's just a potential assist to the case." His wife continued, "It has nothing to do with him and Harry and whatever it is they might have, now does it?"

The ginger-haired man looked down at his wife. "Well…no."

"And furthermore," she continued confidently, "Harry would have told you about any recommendation he made before doing so, wouldn't he?"

It was times like these that Ron Weasley knew just how much he loved his wife. He brought her closer, kissing her cheek.

"Thanks, 'Mione."

"I'm supposed to go back and see Harry in a little bit," she said, "Do you want to come with me?"

The man's first reaction was to say no—but he realized that he'd actually arrived home on time for once. There was really no reason to decline. Not wanting to see Malfoy wasn't much of an excuse, and he knew Hermione would argue against that anyway.

"Sure," he said finally, kissing her, "Maybe we can actually get him out of that room and take him out to dinner."

Hermione rolled his eyes. "He doesn't actually stay there _all _the time. He comes by here for a shower and food occasionally. Tried to give me some money for it!"

"That's Harry for you," he said, but found it good to know that the dark-haired wizard was taking a break when he needed to. He still wasn't convinced that hanging around Malfoy was a good idea.

Wisely, however, he did not share that opinion.


	26. Chapter 26

**::78::**

Hermione arrived that night with her husband in tow, and this was something Draco Malfoy decided he did not like at all. It was one thing to deal with Granger or Weasley individually, but with the whole Golden Trio upon him, it was another matter entirely. It was for this reason that the blonde decided to use the information that the bushy-haired woman had shared with him.

Ron scowled at the superior look that settled on the Slytherin's face, looking at Harry as if his friend would say anything against it.

It turned out, however, that Malfoy's worries for a gang-up of Gryffindors had no cause. The first thing Hermione said was, "Harry, I need to talk to you." Her brown eyes briefly flittered to the pale man's face, as if she were wondering how much he had said about their conversation.

"I reckon you've got to be hungry, mate," Ron added in, purposely ignoring Malfoy's stare, "We'll take you out. My treat."

The bedded man was _bursting _to make a comment about the Weasel's newfound financial success (at least, success compared to The Burrow) but one pointed, dark glare from bespectacled green eyes made him think twice. An angry Potter was no use to him in the current state he was in.

Instead, he drawled, looking completely unenthused, "Go on, Potter, I'm not your keeper."

The ginger-haired man scowled at this, stifling a retort of his own, but Granger ignored it, saying, "It's important."

"Okay," said the savior, clearly concerned now, partly because of the brimming tension between Ron and Malfoy, and partly because of the ominous tinge of her words, "Well, you can just tell me now, 'Mione—"

All three people in the room seemed to find this exasperating, but Malfoy, unsurprisingly, was the fastest to cut in, "For Merlin's sake, Potter! You'd _starve _if it weren't for people telling you what to do, listening to that Gryffindor bravery does you no good if you whittle down to a husk. Now, _go, _it looks," the man sneered at Ron, "like my company is not entirely welcome anyway."

Harry wanted to say something to that, but Hermione apparently found it best to take each man by the arm and lead them away before Malfoy got into an argument with Ron. The taller man was positively fuming at that point, muttering under his breath about Malfoy's character, and as they were walking down the corridor, unhanded by his wife at this point, he said to Harry, "Really, why'd you have to fall in love with _him?" _

Healer Corner, turning around a corner, just a few steps behind the retreating trio, paused. It didn't seem apparent that Ron or his counterparts knew he'd heard.

Not another word came out of the tall Auror's mouth, though, and Michael reckoned Harry had shut him up. He resumed his walking, pondering what he'd just heard thoughtfully. Perhaps he would go bring Draco Malfoy his potion himself.

The aforementioned patient looked as pleased as the last time he'd seen him.

"Oh, come to check on my progress more?" he asked dryly, "You sure you don't want to simply dump me on the floor? If it's pain you're after, that should do the trick—and look, you can even check off all your little boxes at the same time!"

The healer stood at his bedside, the potion in his hand. He'd ignored everything the man had said. "You and Potter?"

"What about me and Potter?" the icy tone retorted.

"I suppose no one would ever have thought Potter would have fancied a Death Eater, that's all. It seems mighty odd, don't you think?"

Malfoy's eyes narrowed, detecting a sense of threat behind the question. He chose not to answer it, reaching and taking the potion—which was held above him on purpose. He swallowed it one gulp, and after which gave him a stare as if to say _What are you still here for? _

"You'd best be careful, Malfoy," the healer said casually, "If people get wind of you being Potter's bedtime play, there could be some disastrous consequences."

"Like?" Malfoy spat out harshly, "Threatening to go to the media, are you? Who would believe you?"

The healer shrugged, "I wouldn't, not because I care about you, Malfoy, but because I care about Harry and his contributions. No one at first would believe me anyway, I expect, but they'll notice when you start hanging around their beloved hero like a dog. Just be certain, Malfoy, that you keep some things quiet."

_And his contributions. _Malfoy let the words echo in his head and he sneered. That was all Potter was good for now, wasn't it? Someone to slave away without expecting anything in return. In retrospect, Harry Potter was very easy to take advantage of.

Corner had left in the middle of his musing, but the blonde knew that he needed to talk to Potter before things spiraled out of control, and he wasn't about to let Potter and their ridiculous notion of a romance rip things apart.

These thoughts haunted him for quite a while, and when the potion lulled him into a semi-sleep state, all he could see behind his eyelids were newspapers of Harry's downfall after the public found out about Draco's involvement with their speccy git.

Sleep, for once, did not rescue him, even after the potion he'd taken.

_Better be a bloody good dinner, _Malfoy thought with a scowl, _and he'd better bring me back dessert._

**::79::**

Harry was at a table at a restaurant that served Italian food. He'd barely looked at the menu, deciding to get the smallest item possible, because he didn't think food could get past the twist of knots in his stomach.

Ron, at least, had eased on his fuming after leaving Malfoy, but it was obvious some feelings still lingered over it, because he was choosing to stay quiet. The woman next to him was pretending to be very immersed in the food selection there, which made it even more clear that whatever she needed to tell him wasn't something he'd like.

"Look, Hermione, what is it?" the green-eyed man said impatiently, taking off his glasses for a moment, and suddenly remembering his wish to get his eyes fixed. Now, however, wasn't the time for that.

The bushy-haired woman didn't like how direct her friend was being, but after an awkward silence, she sighed, and said apologetically, "It's the centre. The public is pushing even more to have it shut down, and since the rumor about it having ties to Voldemort, it's worse than ever."

Fiddling with his fork, Harry took her words in without saying anything. He'd known it would get bad, but not _this _bad, and he wasn't sure what to say without swearing loudly and perhaps breaking a few lights in the process. Rage was coursing through him, the sort that made it difficult to think about anything else but destroying something.

"The Ministry doesn't want to let anyone know about the safehouses. They say it could just cause more panic and this is probably the biggest break they've had. Maybe their _only _break." Ron supplied, knowing his friend would wonder why the Ministry wasn't working harder to save the place.

It was typical, really, Harry thought in a wave of bitterness. They'd used the centre for all they needed and now that they were done, there was no reason to care about its demise.

"What would change their minds?" The wizard asked finally, the question tumbling past his lips so quietly he thought he might have just imagined it.

Ron gave him a sad smile. "I don't know. Finding the safehouses is the Ministry's top priority, but no one's come forward to help them yet."

The Gryffindor blinked at him owlishly. His line of thinking was cut short by the waiter that approached their table—after rattling off their orders, Harry returned to his planning.

"I have someone that can help them, then," Harry said, "How desperate are they, Ron?"

The auror seemed caught off-guard by the question—he had been staring at a plate of ribs that had gone past. "Desperate."

The raven-haired man tilted his head, a glimmer of determination in his eyes. Both Ron and Hermione had recognized that glimmer—it was the same one they'd seen when Harry had wanted to go after Sirius, when he suspected Malfoy during sixth year—he would get what he wanted, and he was certain of it.

Leaning back to cross his arms, the man wore a thin smile on his face. "Have them make an appointment, Ron."

"Okay," the man responded slowly, not entirely sure what Harry was planning, but his wife seemed to understand immediately.

"That's brilliant, Harry!" she said, looking much more cheerful than she had moments prior, "Make a deal that they back the centre in exchange for Malfoy's help."

He nodded. "Malfoy will have to agree, of course, but I'm pretty sure he will."

Ron just scowled at this, clearly not at all fond of the idea. His friend caught that and said, "You're going to have to get over all this rubbish with Malfoy soon, Ron," Dishes clinked as the waiter brought them salads, "He's not going anywhere anytime soon."

This irritated the auror further. "Why Malfoy? What is it about him that's so great, you'd overlook _everything _bad he'd done in the past?"

Hermione found herself feeling left out of the conversation, and took the moment to pipe up, "Ron, if people just based everyone on the bad things they did, no one would ever change."

Harry gave the man a look as if to say, _See? _

In response, all Ron did was groan. He sighed in frustration and after another moment of Hermione lecturing him on acceptance, he finally asked, "Look, can you just _tell _me what it is you like about him? I don't see it, Harry."

The green-eyed man's cheeks tinged a bit, and Ron quickly informed him that sexual details were unnecessary. That made the tinge blossom into a full-fledged crimson spreading across his face.

"W-well," Harry started awkwardly, "He's good with the kids. They really like him."

Ron scoffed at that, and then cringed at the dark glare Hermione gave him.

"Harvey was out once," he decided to continue, "and Malfoy helped with the lessons that day. The first-years had never made a potion before, and he devised a lesson plan in minutes. They loved it, they really did. He's…sometimes, when you're not looking, you can see how kind he can actually be, and I _know _I used to say Malfoy and kindness were two different planets, but…well, I guess I was wrong."

The freckles on Ron's face suddenly contrasted as he blanched. "Merlin, you sound like a Hufflepuff."

"Ron, leave him alone," Hermione said, coming to his rescue, "you're being a git."

Her husband winced. "Sorry, mate. I guess I just…I don't get it."

This made the bushy-haired woman roll her eyes. "Honestly, Ron. He's in love, there's not much to get."

"I-in love?" Harry stammered out, the bite of lettuce that he'd brought up to his lips sliding down to the plate, "Well, I don't know that—"

Even Ron had to concede at that. "You don't see the way you look at him," he muttered, trying to hide the negativity behind that comment and failing, "Really, it's like how Hermione used to look at Lockhart."

Harry blushed and Hermione jabbed Ron with her elbow, hissing that he'd promised to never say that man's name again. Her crush on Lockhart had always been a sort of embarrassment after they'd found out the truth.

Later, as the dinner left them full and content, Harry stopped the waiter to ask for an éclair to go.

Ron shook his head, more out of amusement than dislike, because despite how much Harry denied to them that he'd fallen head-over-heels for Draco Malfoy, it was obvious that he had.

When Ron and Hermione had returned home after telling Harry to let them know what Malfoy had to say about the deal he wanted to make regarding the investigation, the couple retired to their bed for the night.

"It's funny," the man said suddenly, cutting the silence in the room, "Harry doesn't see the way Malfoy looks at him, either."

Hermione looked at him curiously. "You did?"

"Yeah," Ron nodded, "when we saw him tonight." After a brief pause, he murmured, "I don't think I've ever seen Harry that way before, not even with Ginny."

The woman smiled. "So you'll be nicer to Harry about it now?"

"Oh, 'Mione. I'm never going to like Malfoy, but Harry's my best friend. I don't understand it, or them, but he seems…happy."

"He is."

Ron sighed. Whatever his thoughts on Malfoy and his potential threat, it couldn't be denied that Harry looked the happiest he'd been in a long time. If there were ever a reason to try to make amends with an enemy, he supposed this was the best one.

**::80::  
**"Oi," Malfoy croaked, feeling the brush of Potter's hand against his. He opened his eyes and immediately spied a small box. His pale pink lips curled into a smile at the sight. "You brought me dessert?"

Harry handed a plastic fork to him, opening the box for him. The blonde inspected the contents, and dragged his silver gaze to the emerald one trained on his face. "Chocolate? You've done well, Potter, quite well."

The other man just rolled his eyes good-naturedly and sat next to him. Malfoy seemed to have enjoyed his gift, because he hadn't another retort to share for a good few minutes. The blonde, however, found this silence odd from his usually irritating Gryffindor, and set the fork down.

"What is it, Potter?"

He looked at him again, and Malfoy registered the hesitancy in his stare. As a preemptive attack, he said, "Don't try to hide it, I know something's on your mind."

"'Mione told me about the centre. It's…it's not looking good."

"Oh, I know all about that," the blonde responded nonchalantly, ignoring Harry's surprised expression.

He chose not to ask how Malfoy knew, since he was fairly certain it was Hermione who had told him (that was perhaps the most unexpected part) and said, "Well, I have something to ask you."

The blonde stared at him, chewing on another bite of the éclair. When Harry didn't continue, he motioned at him to get on with it.

"The Ministry's at a dead end with the safehouses. The few Deatheaters they have in custody refuse to have any part of it."

Malfoy did not look surprised at this, and Harry found it odd. "Why didn't you tell me about that earlier?" he asked dryly, one brow raised.

"I-I don't know," the other man admitted, "It wasn't intentional."

"Okay, well," the blonde man said, pausing to take the final bite of his éclair and chewing it thoughtfully, "what does that have to do with your question?"

"I want to ask for a deal." Harry said slowly, as if he wasn't sure how his Slytherin counterpart would react, "Your help in the investigation for their protection of the centre."

As much as Malfoy knew his stupid, impulsive git hadn't meant it to sound like he was being used, it still came across that way, and he had to stifle the affront he felt. He kept quiet, which was something that worried Potter, judging by the way he took his hand.

"You don't have to, if you don't want to." He murmured.

A steely gaze fixed on Harry's anxious one. "And if I do take the deal, what will it mean for…" he trailed off, realizing how ridiculously pathetic he was sounding. What did it matter if Potter decided he wouldn't want Malfoy around after that?

_A lot, _his mind whispered, _and you know it. _

"What will it mean for what?" Potter asked gently, too gently.

Anxiety swelled in his chest, dangerously close to unleashing cruel words he wouldn't mean.

"Well, I'll still be stuck in a hospital bed for a while, won't I? I'd be useless for anything else."

The green-eyed man, peering from beneath messy dark hair, looked bewildered. "Malfoy, I'm not here with you because you can help this case, I'm here because I—" His eyes widened and his mouth clammed shut.

Silver eyes narrowed at the man who'd stopped short, daring him to try to hide whatever truth that had so closely came out.

"Because?" he drawled finally, after Potter was too dense to interpret the stare.

"Because I want to be," he said finally, though it was clearly not exactly what he'd intended to say, "Because…I like being here. With you."

The other man didn't respond, but after Harry kissed him, he whispered, lips close to his ear, "You taste like chocolate."

Malfoy simply kissed him again, grateful that the potion he'd taken was still in effect. It still hurt, but it was worth it.

After they'd parted, with Potter still leaning over him slightly, the blonde said, "I'll help. If they agree with the deal, that is."

The silver-eyed man looked at him for a moment, wondering if now was the time to bring up his thoughts following Corner's comments, and decided that it was not. Perhaps, in two weeks, if he did manage to find a place to stay whilst being on an outpatient basis, he would.

He wondered the place would be with Potter. A strange stirring of emotion curled up in his stomach at the thought. Things that, as a younger boy at Hogwarts, he would have sneered at. Sometimes Potter scared him, with all the power he had—he'd never admit it, of course, but all the same it was unsettling to know that somewhere along the line, he'd tripped past hate and hurtled toward love with the foolish, speccy git.

He found himself taking Potter's hand and tracing his skin there, gently, as if what was in his grasp was something truly fragile.

Perhaps what was most unsettling was that he didn't want to change it.

Harry smiled, unaware of Draco's thought process, taking his usual seat beside him. He would let Ron and Hermione know later. For now, though—he took a look at the pale man beside him, who had taken to outlining each of Potter's fingers with one index finger—he would simply enjoy the moment.

….

_This is the last chapter before the epilogue. I have decided to split this storyline into two different stories, so there will be a sequel after all. It seemed to me that focusing on Draco's discoveries and events that unfolded was really what this story was about, and the following storyline (which veers in a bit of a different direction) wouldn't really fit for one story. And yes, for those of you who are wondering—Harry and Draco's relationship will be developed more in this upcoming one!_

_Thank you to all those who have read and reviewed, I hope you have found this as enjoyable to read as much as I have enjoyed writing it!_

_B. _


	27. Epilogue

**::Epilogue::**

The night after dinner with his friends, Harry went to the centre like he told Draco he would. Even though he'd returned at three in the afternoon, (it was practically a half-day as far as the Gryffindor was concerned) the overwhelming chaos that the centre had become was wholly evident on his face.

The blonde man made a dry remark about that, and Potter seemed far too distracted to care. His green eyes lifted to his and, when seeing his face, a sort of relief fluttered across his expression, like he'd been worried that he'd wouldn't have gotten to the right place. Not even Malfoy could make light of that, and he suspected that it was due to the fact that he'd gone soft as far as Potter was concerned.

"That bad?" he asked finally.

"There aren't even lessons anymore, and everyone's _constantly _in the wrong group—as a joke, you know, first years in with the fourth years—and," the olive-skinned man grimaced, tilting his head back so that it leaned against the wall behind him, "I've dodged about twenty different types of questions about where Albus is."

He turned to meet Malfoy's grey eyes, "I told them that he was with you." He said it half-heartedly, half-sheepishly, as if he expected the blonde man to snap at him for that. He _was _the one to suggest honesty, after all, but Harry didn't think even _he _could tell to their faces—at least by himself with some screaming kids in the background—that their adored class pet was gone. Hell, maybe Malfoy would know what to do about the resulting tears—Harry Potter may had faced Voldemort more than once, but tears weren't easily chased away with a spell.

Well, there were cheering charms…but even he thought that would just make matters worse.

"You're going to have to tell them sometime, Potter," he said simply, "but I suppose right now wouldn't be best."

Harry seemed intrigued by that, with the way his shaggy hair moved as his chin jerked up. "Really?"

Malfoy looked at him like he was the dimmest man he'd come across. "Yes, Potter. At least have ice cream around or something, first. How many children can cry for long when in the vicinity of ice cream?" The truth was, the blonde man doubted Potter would be able to phrase Albus's passing delicately, but he also doubted his ability to—when his pet Crup died of an unfortunate accident with a Devil's Snare, Lucius's only reassurance was, whilst awkwardly patting his son's wailing head, "Well, Draco, some things simply…die."

Then he'd grown irritated with the boy's tears and said he'd buy him a new broom, and whilst such a suggestion would have stopped any other temper tantrum, it was ultimately not what stopped the waterworks over the Crup's death. After that, his father had simply handed him off to Narcissa, who had the grace to simply let him sit in her lap and cry. Reassurance was not her strong point either, however, and Draco always remembered that moment as being the time he realized that the parents he'd read about in stories were just that—no more than stories.

Hugs were replaced with gifts in the Malfoy household—it had always been that way.

"You'd be surprised," Potter answered dryly, shaking him out of his reminiscing, reminded of how his cousin was able to wail at the top of his lungs.

A short man, heaving and red-faced, all but ran into the room. Draco pushed himself further forward to take a look at the strange visitor. He had hair redder than the Weasleys, a long, pointy nose, and eyes that rivaled Potter's.

When the dark-haired man stood up, he saw that the pointy-nosed man barely reached past the man's waist.

"Her-Herm-Hermione wanted m-me…" the stuttering man paused to catch his breath, "to get those to you straightaway."

Harry blinked at him. "Okay." He looked down at the giant stack of files in his arms, and though he felt quite the opposite of grateful, managed to force a smile and say, "Thanks."

As fast as he had arrived, the strange little man disappeared, not even glancing at Malfoy, who had risen an eyebrow at him.

"What was that?"

Potter dumped the files on the bedside table, ignoring the few that toppled to the floor. "If it was a house elf, it was the strangest one I've ever seen, and Hermione would never use a house elf."

Malfoy's long arm extended out to take the file closest to him. He ignored Potter's attempt to stop him.

"She asked if I was thinking about a new place yet, and I said maybe, and _she _said she saw a nice place not far from the centre, so I asked her to look it up—" the wizard began rambling, as if the explanation would stop the other from getting the wrong idea. He wasn't even certain on _what _the wrong idea was, yet.

"That was your first mistake, I presume," Malfoy interjected silkily, the best imitation of his Godfather to date, and then continued with the sort of posh, snobbish tone Harry had learned best associated with the Malfoys, "Your second happens to be stooping so low to look at a flat so dreadful. Really, Potter, I know you adore the whole _devil-may-care _thing, but this place is just…"

He trailed off after looking at the amused expression on Potter's face, as it wasn't exactly the response he was shooting for.

"One would wonder why you care so much," he said, an irritating twinkle in his green eyes. The man this comment was directed at scowled, and grabbed another folder.

This one apparently seemed much worse than the former, because his scowl deepened, though he stopped himself from saying anything. Potter circled around to look at the file, his chin resting lightly on the paler man's shoulder as he did so.

It _was _quite dreadful, and miles away from where they lived. Harry wondered why Hermione would find it something Harry would even be interested in—it wasn't a flat at all, but a house, the sort of house the Dursleys would have liked, complete with the neat rosebushes beside the driveway and—

He furrowed his brows, looking closer, ignoring the bewildered glance that garnered from Malfoy.

It _was _the Dursleys'! Harry laughed. He hadn't been in touch with his relatives since he'd stopped having to return to them for the summer. Harry reckoned, that if Dudley had any say, they needed to "upgrade" because there was simply no room for two Vernon-sized men.

"It was my Aunt and Uncle's," He finally explained to the confused blonde beside him.

Malfoy peered closer, his cheek brushing against Potter's. "The appalling Muggle ones?"

It had been a long few weeks in the hospital, Malfoy had managed to get a few stories out of him about Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, ones that he'd never even told Ron or Hermione. Harry nodded in response.

"Well, thank Merlin for that. That really is a dreadful place, Potter. Hand me the next one, yeah?"

Draco flipped idly through the third folder, and raised a brow. "The bedroom is nice," he commented, but his face twisted at the next picture, "The kitchen, not so much."

"It's a flat, Malfoy." Harry said gently, as if the blonde truly couldn't expect a full-sized kitchen, dining room, and whatever else it was he had in his head.

"So?" the blonde answered snottily, "At least I have standards."

After thumbing through yet another folder for another flat, he asked, "Why is it that you're only looking at flats, anyway? I reckon you could get nearly any house on the market if you wanted."

The raven-haired man stared at him, seeming surprised at the question. "Well, I guess everyone thought I'd be married to Ginny by now and we'd have our own place. Doesn't seem like there's much point without a family."

Malfoy seemed amused by that. "Never pegged you to be so old-fashioned." He said, smirking, "You never did seem to follow the rules before."

"You'd live in a great big old house by yourself?" Harry asked.

"It's not like most thought I'd still be single by now. There was an arrangement with Astoria Greengrass at one point."

For some reason the green-eyed man balked at that. "You had an arranged marriage? And you were going to _go along _with it?"

The thin man shrugged. "Why not? It's perfectly common."

Potter's brows stayed furrowed. It bothered him more than it should have, he admitted. "But…did you love her?"

Grey eyes met with his green ones. "No," Malfoy said, "but I liked her well enough, which is more than some can say for their arrangements."

"What if you had loved someone else? Before the arrangement?"

The pale man looked at him strangely. "I—I suppose it wouldn't have mattered much," he paused, pursing his lips, "Unless it was someone of a pureblood family, preferably with money, following the ideals…"

He trailed off that thought, and asked, "Why does it matter, Potter?"

That dark, messy hair tickled his skin as Harry tried to pretend it didn't. The truth was, he didn't even know why it did. Something about it, though, ripped a hole in his chest and it wasn't even particularly personal. The whole thing just seemed…sad.

"Potter?" Malfoy repeated, trying to catch the green gaze with his own. Rather than moving away after such a searching question, he was surprised to feel that the man had moved closer, handing him another folder.

"Look at this one."

"You're actually _asking _for my input now?" Standard Malfoy drawl.

"Just look at it."

Malfoy tried to find something wrong with it. He really did. It was far from perfect, but he supposed with a bit of upkeep he could bring it damn close to it.

"They won't really—" the blonde stopped short, looking up at Potter, who'd leaned back into his chair, the absence of his head from his shoulder colder than he expected.

"I'll make certain of it, Malfoy. Hermione said they've shut down their operation there." He answered softly, "It was supposed to go to you, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," the blonde answered, no trace of the drawl in his tone. "I imagine a lot's been…taken." There had been plenty of artifacts in that house to keep the Ministry busy for years, he couldn't imagine that they weren't teeming all over it now. He didn't see why they'd ever let go of the Malfoy Manor, either.

He looked at the messy-haired man again. Malfoy supposed he had Harry Potter to thank for that.

For once, the blonde broke his airy nonchalance and let something very impulsive stumble past his lips. It hadn't been intentional at all, as indicated by the tinge of pink on his cheeks after he'd said the words aloud.

"You should stay with me." After the surprise that registered on the olive-skinned man's face, he hastily continued with, "Since you're so hesitant to live _alone _and everything."

Harry's lips curled in an amused smile. "Are you sure I'm _allowed?" _He teased gently, "I might be too dreadful for it."

Malfoy frowned, but it didn't meet his eyes. "Yes, I imagine that's a frequent problem for you, Potter. I suppose you'll just have to be certain to stay close to me." He shot him a suggestive look, "You know, for safety."

"That's all well and good, but where will we stay in the meantime?" Harry asked, ignoring the look of playful indignation.

In the end, two weeks later, they had both managed to agree on a flat. Draco made more than one disparaging comment about the state of the bedroom, but Harry knew he meant none of it. He knew this because he had caught the blonde, more than once, mind you, _nuzzling _into the sheets.

Malfoy was also delighted to find that not only did Harry Potter still want to snog him, he also wanted to shag him. It took some convincing on his part, because Potter seemed to still deem him something fragile and thus not the most ideal sex partner.

Even when he did tell Potter he truly was one-hundred-percent shaggable, the man seemed not to believe it, and it was right about then that Malfoy decided desperate times called for desperate measures and snogged him to the point of seduction right there on the floor.

Later that night, their first night there, in fact, after Harry had made certain the necessary potions had been taken, and the blonde had rolled his eyes at another reminder of the upcoming appointment with the Ministry that following morning, Malfoy lay languidly against him, his damp hair (from the very long bath he had taken earlier) splayed out beneath him, tickling Harry's skin from time to time.

"You," he murmured to the blonde, who stretched slightly at the sound of his voice, looking up at Harry much like a cat would, "haven't made another snide comment about the state of the bedroom this whole hour."

"Oh, shut up, Potter," Malfoy said, shifting to lay on his side, "they weren't snide comments, they were _suggestions."_

"You apparently don't know how suggestions work. They usually sound a bit less bossy." Harry answered dryly.

"In that case," answered the blonde, rolling on top of him, with a grin that could only be described as feral, "may I suggest something else?"

Harry rolled his eyes, but one strategically placed hand of Malfoy's made him drop the pretense. He leaned up to kiss him, but the blonde drew away for a moment, as if goading him.

Draco seemed undeterred when Potter pulled him closer, but he was certain the green-eyed man hadn't seen him smile.

Later, though, as he was drifting off to sleep, being sure to keep the blonde man close against him, it was the last thing Harry saw beneath his lids before slipping away into unconsciousness.

…_._

_Thank you for reading! This story actually veered a lot from my original idea—but I'm pretty pleased with it, even if the title isn't as relevant as it was initially. I hope to have the first chapter of the sequel up by Sunday! In the meantime I have to think of a title…feel free to suggest one!_


	28. Author's Note

I wasn't sure how many of you had set up an Author Alert, so I wanted to let you know that the sequel for Joint Custody, titled The Fine Print, is now up and in development.

Happy reading! (Hopefully, that is)

B.


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